


Hearts on Fire

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: A lot of cows, Baby Maya, Brooding, Cowboys, Dad Harry, Heartache, Horses and cows, Kid Fic, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Tough Harry, parole, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8693413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: "Zayn still repeats those words to himself every day. Even this drunk, even when he tipped back shot after shot, he still mumbled them under his breath, because he won’t forget them. He won’t let himself.Believe nothing. Trust no one. Not a single word."





	1. Life is a highway

**Author's Note:**

> Be patient, that's all I ask.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope y'all enjoy!

Zayn would tattoo those words on his forearm in big bulky letters if he had any room left. Instead he mumbles them, feels how they thrum with each heartbeat, every step he makes closer to them, to being better, to being good – someone else entirely. Maybe somebody Zayn can be proud of.  And it’s simple, just a few choice words:

Believe nothing. Trust no one. _Not a single word_.

–

The office is small and stuffy, and Zayn just showered, but already his shirt is sticking to his back, his toes clammy in his bots, the back of his neck wet. It’s nobody’s fault but his own – or maybe it’s his parents’ for raising him with certain principles, some more prioritized in Zayn’s mind than others, _obviously_ – that he’s wearing a thick, stiff with the detergent he used last night and made worse by blow-drying it into cardboard-like hardness shirt. He thought it be only right for this _special_ occasion. Zayn thought about it and put today in the realm of courts or weddings, funerals and such, where there’s a dress code in place. Certain expectations that, if nothing else, Zayn upholds, because contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a complete savage with disregard and disdain for any kind of rules. Or he isn’t anymore.

He never thought it, but apparently, some things can be beaten into you pretty easily if the right fists are throwing the right punches to the right places just often enough for you start forgetting without actually managing it. Some things can literally be _beaten_ into you. Zayn’s mostly happy that someone managed to do it. He learned to be happy about it, no matter the method, no matter how long that bruise just north of his left eyebrow took to heal, no matter how it aches every time it’s about to rain.

But maybe, if he took the time to step out of his room and check the weather this morning – maybe between pacing from the bed to the bathroom – Zayn would’ve seen the abundant lack of clouds in the sky or just how piercingly blue it was, how round the sun is today. And then he’d put on the blue shirt, which is lighter and breathes, instead of the red checkered one he’s got on, thick and constraining, chocking him around the collar as he sits and waits.

“Be right back,” Paul had said, twenty-three minutes ago, Zayn notices the clock on the wall. Maybe Paul needs to relearn the meaning of _be right back_. Zayn feels there’s a five minute tops restriction. Or there should be.

But it’s not like he can just up and leave, get out of there, out of town, leave the country. Zayn would probably make it down the hallway past the other offices, as far as reception before someone’s bound to call his name. This whole ‘being a free man’ comes with too many restrictions to be true.

In the end, Zayn is resigned to sit, wait and sigh, _just one more thing to get used to_. _One more thing to add to the list that’s completely my fault_ , until Paul comes back in a flurry or paperwork and apologies, “Sorry, sorry, you know how it is.”

Zayn doesn’t.

“So,” Paul starts, very seriously, straight to the point, giving Zayn just enough pause to choke a little first. He sits down, dumping the files piled up on his arms straight to the desk, one over the other, a piece of paper flying out and landing somewhere on the floor. Before, the office was stuffy, barely enough air to breathe, but with Paul inside, it feels like he’s taking half the space of the small cube, while Zayn’s left with less than the other half. “You got a job–”

“What?” There goes the chocking again.

“–I pulled some strings, you’re lucky – what is it?”

For once, Zayn’s glad his face is expressive, that it changes without his say so. It used to get him in trouble, the eye rolls and slight smirks, but especially the displeased scowls. People never liked those.

“You got me a job?” Zayn hopes he manages to close his mouth, it’s just – it’s _fast_. Paul doesn’t seem to think so though, because he’s sighing, leaning back his chair that squeals under his weight and groans when he settles. “I thought there’s like, um, an adjustment period.” Zayn’s doesn’t make a sound.

“We don’t know each other yet,” the words are flying over Zayn’s head, but it’s not Paul’s fault, Zayn’s just having a hard time understanding – and breathing – at the moment. “or _you_ don’t know _me_. I’ve read your file, Zayn,” Paul says, which Zayn can recognize as a branch of trust. _I know your story, I know who you are, where you come from. I know your beginning and your end. I know why you’re sitting in that chair right now_. “And I think you’re a good kid who’s just wandered away a bit.”

Zayn shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he says, “And you’re gonna put me back on the right path? Is that it?” because he’s having a hard time biting his tongue.

Because Zayn doesn’t have a story. Well, he has a story, the kind you would have to take a short vacation just to hear it halfway through, and he guesses everyone has a story to tell, a preface, a prologue, an up-until-this-very-moment that’s interesting and unique, and maybe a little funny and a little sad. But Zayn wants to pretend he doesn’t have one, like he was born today, this morning, right before he woke up at ten o’clock and walked over to Paul’s office.

Zayn has trust issues – _that’s_ his story. He doesn’t believe any word that comes out of people’s mouths, doesn’t believe in anything he reads in the paper or hears on the news. If someone tells Zayn it’s going to rain tomorrow, he’s going to bet on sunshine, on a day like this, when you wish the sun would hide behind a cloud now and then. He’s learned his lesson – that’s Zayn’s story. Trust no one, believe nothing. _Not a single word._ Zayn barely believes himself. So he’s not going to believe Paul either. Not that easily.

But then Paul is shaking his head as well, looking Zayn straight in the eye, which would be less threatening if Paul wasn’t a solid man, tall and strong, with a scowl that could rival Zayn’s. The greening cobweb wrapped around his elbow doesn’t help either. “No. I got you a job, that’s it. Fuck it up all you want, but it’s the only chance you get with me.”

“One strike?” Zayn says around a chuckle. He knows he’s being a little shit, but he can’t help himself and Paul doesn’t seem to mind.

“One strike,” Paul nods with his own smile. He’s not that bad. Not entirely bad.

“What’s the job?” Zayn hears himself ask and it might be because he actually doesn’t want to fuck this up. No more fucking up. _One strike_.

“A… friend of mine’s looking for someone to work on his ranch.”

“Ranch.”

“Yeah, you know, horses, cows, chickens, the lot.”

“Mmm,” Zayn hums. He doesn’t think he’d be able to add anything more constructive.

“Like I said, I’ve read your file, so I know you have zero experience –”

“Less.”

“ – but the important part here,” Paul talks over him when he sees Zayn’s full of questions and objections and very sound reasons why this is _not_ going to work. For one, Zayn’s never even seen a cow – on TV, in cartoons, maybe photos, yes, of course. In the flesh, as in actually in front of him, Zayn doesn’t know if he wouldn’t run away from it. He wonders, _are cows aggressive?_ “Is that Harry’s hopefully not gonna let you fuck up.”

“And he’s the… friend?”

“The owner, yeah.”

“Who is supposed to keep me from fucking up,” Zayn repeats, like he had to in school when he was having a hard time comprehending, so the teachers told him to say it over and over again until it made sense, imbedding into his memory if nothing else, but for how much it worked when he was twelve, it doesn’t quite manage to do so now.

Zayn’s doubtful, because Paul doesn’t know him from reading his file any better than if he met Zayn in a bar three drinks in on a good or a specifically bad day. Zayn’s awful, he’s lazy, a know-it-all that just _had_ to ruin his life and Zayn may have been that person then, the person in that file, but he’s not anymore. Or, because Zayn learned to be cautious, he’d say he’s on his way to be the furthest thing from that person on paper.

“Have you met Harry?” Paul raises his eyebrows, but even if he didn’t, his tone would tell Zayn what’s coming before it does.

“No,” Zayn shakes his head and gets ready for it. He breathes in and out, clenches his fists and bites his tongue. He can’t be too smart here. It never does him any good.

“Then how would you know?” _There it is_.

Paul sighs again, because that’s the effect Zayn has on people: exasperation, exhaustion and sometimes anger, but the latter’s mostly a pleasant change of pace. There’s never surprise though, no one ever gasps, no one’s eyes widen along with their lips in that expression, the surprise happiness that bursts all over your features. Zayn likes that one. The sighs – not so much.

“Let’s make a deal, Zayn, you and me. What do you say?” Paul must hear how ridiculous he sounds, going by his cringe and Zayn would snicker except for how he knows a golden opportunity when he hears one.

“Sure.” He doesn’t nod to feign resignation.

“No more excuses, no more shit, alright?” Paul doesn’t wait for an answer as he says, “You’re going to the middle of nowhere and you’re going to work your ass off. You’re gonna wake up every morning and work, eat and work some more. Day in, day out. That’s it. And,” Paul rushes, pointing his finger at Zayn as he suddenly leans forward, shooting the words into the middle of Zayn’s chest, “You’re gonna stay the fuck away from cars. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“But –”

“What?”

“Don’t I have to check in with you?”

Paul huffs as he leans back. This time, Zayn doesn’t hear the chair. “I’ll call you, don’t worry. Just work. That’s all I want.”

–

There are two very distinct things going through Zayn's head right now. Both of which are completely illogical, but even as he tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes for a brief second, they don’t dissipate. _It smells like spring_ , which should be perfectly normal, pleasant even, because it _is_ spring, the middle of May, the prime time to be able to pick up on the warmth of the season. And it’s not just the blossoming flowers and chirping birds that are welcomed either, it’s the sun as well, how it warms the air, the earth, and the fields Zayn passes one by one. There’ve been a couple of scarecrows that caught Zayn’s eye and made him smile, their raggedy shirts and vests not unlike the ones in his backpack.

It’s just, Zayn’s wearing a helmet and what he should be smelling is stale sweat and burnt gas, because his bike is old and battered and well far past its heydays. So Zayn shouldn’t be able to just know what spring smells like all of a sudden, he shouldn’t be able to pick it out of a lineup of other peach-orange scents. Zayn’s also never paired a color with a smell but there he goes, doing exactly that, wondering if he could bottle it up as he avoids a pothole the size of a larger crater. _There he goes._

The other, much more worrying thing that’s happening, the one that doesn’t make Zayn smile ridiculously into his helmet, thankful that no one can see or hear – not that there’s been anyone even remotely close to the road for more than an hour and a half that wasn’t made of sticks and cloth – is _Life is a Highway_. Zayn doesn’t remember hearing the song, he doesn’t know when the last time he heard it even was and he never realized he knows every word. _Every_ word, word for word, backwards and forwards.

Zayn doesn’t _like_ the song, but then he has to bite his tongue to not belt _‘I wanna ride you all night long’_. He thinks _fuck it_ and belts it anyway. But as he does though, Zayn thinks it over – it doesn’t take more than a second – figures he _actually genuinely_ _hates_ the song, and sings even louder, over and over. He doesn’t plan to stop until someone makes him.

 _This is what my life looks like._ Empty roads that cut through fields of crops and high grass and pasturing cows, the smell of peach-orange and lemon-yellow seasons, iced teas and early mornings with Rascal Flatts crooning in the background of it all. _Not a car in sight, no familiarity anywhere to hold on to, no escape routes or excuses left. Just this, just what’s right in front of me._

The song ends up being somewhat of a highlight of Zayn’s day, because maybe it makes him forget for a while, as he keeps on driving and driving, not stopping unless he needs to refill the tank. Singing _Life is a highway_ at the top of his lungs lets Zayn forget he isn’t just driving for the hell of it like he used to. That there are no sirens trailing behind him this time, no adrenaline rush to go along with the tight corners. It’s been a while, but he’s finally driving with a place to get to, a destination clear in sight. Or at least as clear as Paul managed to make it.

Zayn’s first day was a lot to take in. First it was Paul’s shit directions he had to deal with. ‘Just go to Cloverville and you’ll know when you’ve found the place.’ If it weren’t for Paul’s muscles and tattoos that screamed _prison ink_ , Zayn would’ve punched him. Or at least scowled. As it was, he nodded and hoped it would be just that easy.

Surprisingly, it was. There’s only one road leading to Cloverville and one going out, further down south from what Zayn thought was the southernmost part of the state. It felt like it to Zayn at least. It was a sunny day without a cloud in sight, all warm and buzzing with the near arrival of summer, until Zayn saw the farm in all its glory with more than a dozen cows on the field in front of it and panicked enough to stop in the middle of the road to get off his bike and just, _breathe_.

It was then, standing with his hands braced on his knees and Rascal Flatts still going strong, as he tried not to hurl on his boots, that Zayn made himself promise to be better. He doesn’t have a story, that’s what he reminded himself, first as just a formless thought before he actually said it, with his eyes closed and knees week. He doesn’t have a story.

And as he got back on his bike, as it rumbled back to life beneath him, Zayn told himself again, over and over, that he’s a cloudless summer sky, a ripple-less lake, a fresh layer of snow that sits on a mountain top untouched, unbothered, even by the wind. He’s going to be good, _better_. For once in his life, Zayn’s going to listen.

So Zayn drives down the pebbled road that looks as empty as the sky, and it’s never quite felt that good to be in the middle of nowhere, driving towards something new. Zayn is so used to driving away – away from his problems, from his parents, his thoughts – that going forwards in a straight line feels liberating. Not to mention the fact he’s doing it with a vehicle he owns.

‘You’ll know it when you see it. The cows will be all over the place.’ That’s what Paul said instead of giving Zayn the address of the ranch. ‘The cows will be everywhere’ made Zayn slightly weary of where he was going, but once he actually sees the place, his bike kicking up the dirt on the road along where Zayn thought a fence _should_ be but isn’t, he does know it’s the right place.

He made a left turn on the dirt road, towards the house looming over the property with a barn right next to it, and Zayn was sure he could see a line of chicken coops a bit further on from the buildings. It’s no animal waiting for him on the front porch of the house though. It’s a man, a displeased looking man with the kind of sneakers that didn’t belong anywhere near the dirt Zayn just drove on. Personally, he thought his combat boots were a better fit. Short and with the kind of look on his face Zayn has avoided making for some time now, so as to insure unnecessary fights didn’t break out, the man has his hands on his hips and something close to a greeting all ready before Zayn even goes to take his helmet off.

“Who are you?”

Zayn huffs. “Who are _you_?” he counters. Hostility may not be the best idea, he reasons with himself a second too late, but then he doesn’t know this guy. And this guy doesn’t know Zayn. Paul said he’d call to let them know when Zayn’s gonna be here.

The guy crosses his arms over his chest and spreads his legs by that much. “I’m the owner of the property, so you better tell me what you’re doing here.”

“You’re Harry?”

The man visibly deflates, but still narrows his eyes. “How do you know Harry?”

Zayn smiles in a way he thinks makes him look more friendly and less like he’s coming to cause trouble. He’s been told that it’s what his look usually conveys. He’s working on it, among other things. “I’ve come to work for Harry.”

“What? That son of a– Niall!” Louis shouts over his shoulder, startling Zayn where he’s standing, still apprehensive about the entire ordeal. By this point, Zayn’s apprehensive about his entire life. “Did he fire me?” Louis’ eyes are in suspicious slits, “Are you my replacement? I can’t believe he actually meant it this time.”

It’s a lot to take in. The man is a lot to take in off the bat. He’s loud, like he doesn’t realize the buoyancy of his voice or how sharply it cuts at Zayn’s ears that early in the morning, early afternoon. Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t care that Zayn isn’t ready to be dragged into the house by his wrist and trust on to the couch to be interrogated by a very nosy couple of men.

–

“What’s your name?”

“Don’t be rude, Louis.” Niall, Zayn guesses, chastises Louis. It’s kindhearted though, like Niall’s used to reigning Louis in. “Hi,” he goes on, smiling politely at Zayn. “I’m Niall,” he points at himself and then waves at Louis with a, “That’s Louis.”

Zayn nods. He can’t decide which one of them is more ridiculous. “Name’s Zayn.”

“Zayn,” Niall parrots, but it’s like he doesn’t say anything, because Louis talking over him with a stern, “What are you doing here?”

“ _Louis_. I’m sorry, it’s just Harry didn’t mention someone was coming.”

“Oh.” Zayn isn’t surprised. It’s typical. This is his life after all. “Yeah, I, um, I’ve come to work here?”

“As a replacement?”

“No, extra pair of hands.”

Louis deflates in front of his eyes like a balloon, wheezing as it whips from ceiling to wall. “Well then. Welcome!” Louis says, too loudly again, as he turns and walks outside, back to where they came from.

“Yeah, I guess. Welcome,” Niall says, again with that polite smile that Zayn can see is genuine. He doesn’t know who he’ll get along with better. It can go either way, he guesses. “I should give you a tour of the place, shouldn’t I?”

Zayn shrugs as Louis yells, “Let him figure it out,” but Niall’s already walking towards the kitchen with his face telling Zayn to follow.

“He’s…” Zayn trails off. Loud is the first thing that pops into his mind. Obnoxious is second, but if there’s one thing Zayn’s going to have to work on is being unnecessarily rude. So he shrugs to brush it off as he walks behind Niall through the living room, a long hallway, until they’re walking into the kitchen.

It’s Niall though, who snorts and says, “A lot to take in, we know. _Louis_ knows. He just doesn’t care,” with a dismissive shrug as Zayn takes in the white kitchen. The very white, clean and organized kitchen.

There’s a double window right above the sink that lets light trickle copiously into the room, illuminating the counters Zayn would bet are marble. It feels like it when he leans against it. Everything’s wood in this house; the floors, the closets and drawers, cabinets and window sills, and the kitchen island Niall stands next to. From what Zayn can tell, even the fireplace in lined with wood, which cannot be safe.

“So,” Niall hops onto the island and starts in that way everyone does when they’re getting ready to pounce. Or at least start a line of conversation, questions and answer, that Zayn won’t want to go along with. He might not even answer, might pretend like he didn’t hear a word. “I’m guessing you didn’t read about the job in the newspaper?”

“Not exactly, no,” Zayn says, thinking what his options are. It’s either tell the truth, which makes his life complicated to the paint he doesn’t want to deal with, or he omits the truth, bends it for a couple degrees so that it becomes malleable enough for Zayn to work with. He realizes he could outright lie, but Zayn doesn’t want to have to remember what’s what and he reasons this makes him a better person, which is what the end goal is anyway. So, without much guilt – which Zayn’s sure is a bad enough sign – he says, “A friend of mine happened to mention it and since I needed a job,” with a shrug, he entire thing easy and simple. Convincing even and it’s not that big of an omission. A friend or parole officer – they sound practically the same.

Niall gives him a smile, this time decisively less polite, and Zayn’s seen that smile before, only a handful of times, but each time it held the same sentiment. Every one of those times, it sent shivers down Zayn’s spine like nothing else, like nobody’s business.

Zayn was six years old, the youngest of the kids on their block, a bunch of boys that got bored too much for their own good. He turned six and his mom got him new sneakers –green and yellow ones, with lightning bolts at the side – for his birthday a week before, which meant Zayn was the talk of their block, The Kid with the Sneakers everyone else wanted. It wasn’t his fault that everyone started talking to him like he matter all of a sudden, like he wasn’t a loser or a part of their group just because of where his house happened to be. And when Tyler, the oldest of them at ten years old, suggested someone should go get them a six-pack from the store between the barber and the florist shop in town, Zayn didn’t volunteer, at least not explicitly with a raised hand. His sneakers did, the other boys did, and something told him to do it, to walk into that store, stuff a heavy six-pack down his jacket, zip it up to his chin and walk out, as if nothing happened, like he didn’t just steal something right from under Mark’s nose. Zayn did it, because contrary to popular belief, he listened when someone told him to do something, and as much as he learned his lesson the hard way years later, he didn’t know any better when he was six.

What Zayn knew full well though, was to act completely normal once he got home. He had to kick off his sneakers at the door – Trisha didn’t let them wear shoes inside the house – and go to the kitchen where his mom was singing under her breath while making them dinner, all the while pretending like adrenaline wasn’t still pumping through his veins, a hint of beer on his breath, his first beer.

“Hey Sunshine,” she said as soon as Zayn walked through the kitchen door without even needing to turn around. She told him once that she could always feel her children. “How was your day?”

“Good.” Zayn slumped into his kitchen chair, feeling like a single spark was enough to set him on fire. “Hungout with the boys for a bit.”

“Oh, yeah? You lot getting along?” she mussed and Zayn thought it was a trick question – it wasn’t – panicking whether to say yes or no, why she was so invested all of a sudden – she wasn’t, not exactly. It wasn’t a trick question, but maybe that’s what made it one.

“Mhm.”

“Well, you sure are the talk of the town. Did you know the call ya The Bad Boys?” she laughed, but the sound soothed Zayn for only a second. “And those sneakers,” Trisha turned around, wiping her hands on the dish towel. “Really catching everyone’s eye. Do you remember that fella Mark? He works in his dad’s store on the weekend? He’s saving up for college, you know, helping his parents out and all that.” Zayn was sweating through his sweater and he was sure Trisha could tell. “Anyway, Mark asked about your sneakers…” she let the sentence hang in the air, suspended somewhere between here and there, high up, floating – lodged in Zayn’s throat as he waited, silently, for what was to come.

And then Trisha smiled at him, her mouth curving upwards as her eyes didn’t crinkle to follow, or shift or blink or moved away from his own. Because _she knew_. She caught Zayn red handed, with his hand covered in cookie crumbles without saying a single accusatory word. She didn’t so much as breathe for those seconds she let Zayn sweat at his guilt, before she shook her head, turned back around and said, just as quietly and uplifting as before, “Waned to know where I got them for you.”

Zayn took that to mean he should go upstairs and not come down for dinner, but nothing more. Definitely not a warning to not go to the mall with Tyler the week after and steal him his own pair of sneakers – red and black. Or to stop hanging out with Tyler altogether, because he was bad company, up to no good. Zayn heard that later, a few years down the line, when it was too late and Tyler wasn’t the boss of Zayn anymore. At that point, no one was the boss of Zayn.

So Zayn knows exactly what Niall’s smile means, what he’s trying to tell Zayn with it, but like always, because tiger and its stripes, Zayn smiles back and says, “Got lucky, I guess.”

And all Niall does is hum, nod, say, “Aren’t we all,” before he gives Zayn the tour of the place. Just like that. Just as simple.

As they make their way from one bedroom to the other, with only a finger aimed at a closed door with, “Harry’s,” as an explanation and a quick sit down in Niall’s to show Zayn his guitars, Zayn feels both satisfied and sick, like his gut is trying to tell him something, that maybe this is what trying to be better feels like.

At the end of the night, Zayn takes an aspirin, drink half a pepto bismol and tells his gut to shut up.

–

Zayn wanted to wake up to the cold morning air kissing his bare shoulders for once, or the first sunrays of the day to blind him in red behind his eyelids, maybe even the rooster screaming its head off uncontrollably until Zayn would give in and get up. One or all of the above, they would’ve all been perfectly okay, but Zayn’s done his part of being a shit person all his life, and even for how much he’s paid for that already, he knew that there was more to come.

After one of the longest weeks of his life and two years of rigid wake up calls that he still has nightmares about, all Zayn wants is to wake up languidly, in his own time, to let his brain catch up with the time of the day, whatever that may be. No cold air, no sunshine, no roosters. Just blinking your eyes open and after a second of trying to figure out where you are, rolling over on your other side thinking, _five more minutes._

Instead, he’s shaken awake by Louis bursting into his room, screaming, “Get up, get up, get up!” every morning, as if he wants to wake up the whole world, and it’s pushing on Zayn’s sanity. He had it coming, he’s paying off every single mistake he’s ever done, Zayn’s fine with that, but it’s not like he killed anyone. Not if Louis doesn’t stop shouting in his face.

“Will you shut up already?” Zayn mumbles into the pillow.

“Oh,” Louis smiles, all innocence and joy, and even if Zayn doesn’t know Louis very well yet, he knows that Louis knows he’s being a dick. “You’re awake.” His sweet tone doesn’t fool Zayn and neither does the fact he says, “Time to get up,” with a soothing tone all of a sudden. Louis is an unbelievable dickhead.

Zayn groans, loudly, annoyed and frustrated, making it undoubtedly clear what he thinks of Louis. “Does this have to happen every morning?”

“I guess you’ll have plenty of time to find out, won’t you?”

“I hate you!” Zayn shouts at the door Louis leaves open behind himself, letting that cool air draft over Zayn’s bleary eyes. It’s as pleasant as he thought it would be. And it’s not like he hasn’t been forced to wake up at the same time with the same method for the past few mornings, Zayn just never imagined five in the morning felt like _this_.

Like someone dripped permanent glue onto his eyelids and at least drugged him while he was sleeping as well, because that’s the only logical reason why he can’t feel his legs and arms as he tries to roll over on his back, he groans again and sighs, relents that he’s stuck as he is lying on his stomach, but Zayn’s quick to reason with himself that it could be worse.

He slept with his window wide open, because he wanted to have the familiarity of the moon close by in the room that’s still as foreign as the first night he stayed here. It’s his own room, Zayn’s room, where he unpacked his backpack and emptied his jacket pockets. It’s downstairs, the only bedroom on the floor at the back of the house, the door between the bathroom and the backyard, and it’s all his. There’s a closet with too many shelves and even a hanging rack that’s only occupied by his one jacket, a chest of drawers with all five of them left empty, a bed, a nightstand and a desk with a chair. It’s quaint, small, about the size of his last bedroom with a much more comfortable mattress without a single piss stain. The biggest improvement in Zayn’s life, something he’d write home about, _and I’ve got my own bedroom, the door locks, the mattress doesn’t smell, there’s a big window too_. Not that he will.

Besides what he had with him when he came here, it’s the only other thing that’s his and as small as it is, it’s enough for Zayn to know that he’s doing good, better than he ever has.

He gets out bed ten minutes to five, earlier than all the days before.

–

Zayn’s driving back to the ranch. There’s his old bike gripping to the familiar road, the familiar sky with clouds hovering over his head that he’s never seen before – but it doesn’t feel like it. After a week, his third run to the store and a couple of laps around town with his bike, Zayn already knows how the graveled pathway turns left and right, where to avoid a log that’s fallen over the road, and not to get too close to Mrs. Pratt’s house or she’ll complain his ear off again. _That damn loud thing of yours_. It all feels the same, the morning they ran out of coffee, yesterday when Niall used the last bit of toilet paper – which Zayn’s learned is difficult to carry when he has to have both hands on the handlebars – and today, with a cereal box in Zayn’s backpack, and it all bleeds into one single thing that Zayn does now. Simple as.

When Louis complains or Niall orders, Zayn gets on his bike and drives down to the shop to get it without a single snarky comment about how it has to be _him_ to do it. And it might have something to do with the underlying memory of doing the weekend shopping for his mom, so she’d have something to cook dinner with, except now it’s mostly for Louis and Zayn practically jumps at the mere suggestion of being able to move about an unlimited territory that’s not measured off by a barbed wire. Zayn gladly offered to do the morning run for whatever will make Louis pleasant if nothing else.

It took Zayn two mornings to ditch the main road and try the back ones instead, the gravely, dirty, full of fresh-wet-mud roads that he can drive his bike on as fast as it lets him, splashing at the back wheel as he goes. It’s less about how the bike groans against bumps and pools of last night’s rain and more about how fast Zayn can go, just to feel like he could go anywhere if he wanted to, not straight back to the ranch.

Zayn will smell like dirt at the breakfast table even after he’ll change his clothes, and Niall will complain about it, swear it changes the taste of his food, like the eggs came from the garden instead of the chicken coop out back. Louis will hum with his lips pressed to the brim of his coffee cup and Zayn will shrug, because he can’t help himself. If he isn’t allowed to be closer than ten feet to a car, no one can blame him for taking it out on his dirt-bike in the morning. No one can hang his frustration over his head. Zayn won’t let them. Not again.

Like most mornings, Niall’s out on the front porch and without even realizing he does it, Zayn looks his way as soon as he rounds the corner out of the woods and onto the gravel road leading up the house. It’s like Zayn needs the affirmation that everything’s okay, that it’s the same every morning. That he’s still stuck in the safety of a routine, even weeks after officially being a free man again.

Niall waves at him, like Zayn knew he would, and he nods back as he twists the throttle a bit more, just to propel himself forwards before he parks with a last circle of his back wheel. Zayn thinks Niall enjoys the show, but it’s more for his own pleasure. It’s good to know he can muck around a bit, even if he’s heard Louis moan about all the dust in the air.

“Louis will hate you for that.” Zayn hears Niall yell before he’s even got his helmet off. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge it though. Louis hates everything he can. Or he’d like to pretend he does. Zayn thinks he has him figured out.

“Good morning.”

“Morning. How was it? You look extra dirty today,” Niall wrinkles his nose. Zayn grins.

“I know. I found a new path up in the woods by Thomason’s. It goes right along the lake.”

“Scenic.” Niall nods with a genuine grin.

“Muddy,” Zayn says, smiling back. “Breakfast?”

“Waiting.”

The table’s already set when he gets inside, toes off his boots and dumps his helmet in the closet near the staircase. His first day, Niall only bothered to give him a quick tour of the house, pointing out rooms and hallways, which bathroom was whose and not much more. So Zayn was left to figure out everything else by himself. Like what the policy with shoes was; if there was a closet to put them in or a wall to line them against. It’s the latter, obviously, though there’s no rule for not wearing shoes in the house. That was harder to get used to than Zayn would ever admit.

But how he shrugs off his jacket, hands his backpack to Niall, who’s practically drooling over his cereal and kicks off his battered combat boots next to a pristine pair of golden cowboy boots he can’t picture Niall or Louis wearing.

When Zayn finally makes his way to the breakfast table, Niall right behind him, Louis’ already got a cup of coffee outstretched over the table that Zayn more than gratefully takes. It’s still hot and if it’s because Zayn complained how he could go out first thing in the morning to fetch cornflakes while other’s couldn’t even wait to get the coffee going so that he could still drink it while it’s hot like a normal person, it definitely doesn’t make him smile into the cup as he takes a tentative sip.

“Thanks,” he hums, refusing to remove his lips from the edge. Zayn knows Louis will get up midway eating to pour himself and Zayn another cup without asking, and the thought makes him take another sip, satisfied with how things are turning out for him all of a sudden. He sits down at what is now his spot at the table and sighs contentedly.

There’s fried eggs and sausages, a two days old loaf of bread, and cereal that Louis warms up the milk for. He’s been very proud of his recent accomplishment of not burning the milk as far as Zayn’s heard. And he’s heard plenty. Day in and day out, maybe with the absence of bread when they run out, breakfast is always at five in the morning. Or fifteen past at the latest if Zayn takes an extra detour, sometimes sooner, depending on when Louis – the most annoying alarm clock that doesn’t want to be awake all by himself – gets up.

Zayn thought he’d escaped the rigidness of a tightly entwined routine, that lights-out would be whenever he pleased and that no one would force him out of the comfort of his bed in the mornings once he started to live his life again, over and brand new, but he isn’t exactly bothered that it turned out this way either. He keeps thinking that it could be worse. Zayn knows he’s had it plenty worse.

–

The fact that Zayn’s never been subjected to physical exercise beyond some light lifts and a boxing bag here or there, when his dad still used to talk to him enough to take him to the gym with him, speaks volumes of the state of his back. It’s killing him. There’s this pulling inside his spine, like a knife has been stuck there, twisting deeper and down every time he so much as bends over. Niall said it’ll only last for two weeks, but with his tone and Louis’ snicker, Zayn had a hard time believing him.

“So is this all we do?” Zayn huffs. They’ve been at it for an hour now and he’s about ready for a break that won’t come until noon. Zayn doesn’t want to know how many hours there are left until noon. He’s sure it’s too many. “Move hay around?”

“We talked about this,” Louis starts. He’s sweating too, Zayn can see drops of it glistening on his forehead. Niall’s surprisingly dry. “We don’t _move hay around_. We mow the field, piece by piece, let the grass dry, _move it_ ,” Louis give him a sharp side-look, “and store it up in the barn, so we have something to feed the animals with.”

“I’m just wondering.” Zayn should try to focus more on doing his work than why he’s doing it in the first place. He’s aware of his personality faults. “How come you needed a new guy, anyway?” The thought worms its way into his head as he tries to make hay stick to his pitchfork. Niall’s been here for years and Louis says he’s one of the _originals_ , whatever that means. Harry inherited the place and he hasn’t heard of someone leaving, but, “Did someone leave?”

“Nah,” Louis shrugs him off. “It was just tough, you know, doing everything between us three? I guess we finally wore Harry down.” Louis’ groaning as he lifts his load onto the back of the pickup.

“You mean you did?”

“Like you never complained,” Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes at Niall.

There hasn’t been an initiation of any kind, and Zayn was expecting _something_ when it comes to Louis, but maybe his apprehension from the first day wore off faster than Zayn thought it would. A couple of odd looks, intrusive questions Zayn didn’t bother answering, and half a plate for dinner was all Zayn got. After that, when Zayn heard the shrill power of Louis’ voice on that first naïve morning, everything settled into a nice flow.

“I’m having a hard time picturing that,” Zayn doesn’t even think about biting his cheek, “You complaining while Niall does all the work. I honestly can’t see that happening. Not at all,” he stresses his last words, dripping them in all the sarcasm he can.

“Keep that up and you’ll see what’s coming.”

“Don’t worry. He rarely follows through with his threats,” Niall whispers to him conspiratorially.

 “Which side are you on?” Louis shrieks.

“I’m neutral,” Niall raises his hands in the air as if to prove his point. His pitchfork falls to the ground, lifting a puff of dust as he does. “Switzerland and all that.”

“That’s it. I’m telling Harry.” It’s not the tone this time, it’s not even the way Louis smirks at himself and them, like he knows what he just said. And the implications it has. But Zayn’s the new guy. He’s been here for barely a week and even if routine is something he thrives off of, he hasn’t picked up on every single thing. Not to mention how difficult it is to understand what Louis means since he hasn’t even met Harry.

“You’re bluffing,” Niall says, squinting at Louis. Zayn’s frown only deepens.

“Try me.”

“You’re not a snitch,” Niall counters.

“Ha! Have you met me?”

“Alright,” Niall’s nodding. Zayn thinks it just got serious when Niall says, “Then let’s go to Harry and tell him how you had Zayn paint the front porch when we all know that was your job.”

“That’s it!” Louis suddenly yells and throws his pitchfork to the ground, barely missing his own toes.

“Wait.” Niall and Louis turn towards him, one smiling while the other fumes with a hint of steam coming from his ears. “That was _your_ job?”

“Look…”

“My knees almost snapped off from being bent that long,” Zayn says, as calmly as he possibly can, even if his knees whine every time he takes a step and it’s been four days since he’s held a brush. “And you didn’t even help.”

“You told me you helped, Louis,” Niall’s shaking his head. Zayn doubts the disappointed look on his face will have any effect on Louis.

“Okay, how about we all calm down and I’ll rethink getting Harry?”

“Oh no, please do,” Zayn goads. “I’d love to finally meet him.”

“You probably wouldn’t,” Niall adds.

“Yeah, I think we can all agree to just finish up here and then grab something to eat.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” Niall’s already bending down to grab his pitchfork and get the last heaps of hay loaded, Louis walking around the car and climbing in, while Zayn’s left standing there, more confused than he thinks he’s ever been.

“Wanna get in?” Louis pops his head out the door, smiling at Zayn.

“Yes please.” Niall throws the pitchforks into the car and jumps into the passenger seat, so that there are two expectant pairs of eyes looking at Zayn, waiting for him to jump in as well.

He’s still having a hard time wrapping his head around what exactly happened, but the one thing Zayn knows for certain, without a shadow of a doubt, is that he is not getting into a car. If he can help it, not now, not ever. So he manages to shake his head against the confused and say a quick, “I’ll walk,” as Louis’ already driving off and Niall’s waving him off before he grabs at the roof of the car.

–

His back is killing him, and so are his arms and legs and thighs. His thighs are burning. Zayn has got more blisters on his hands than he has fingers and more than half are bloody on top of painful. Niall said that his hands were too delicate for work like this and then Louis continued to make fun of his dainty hands. And reminding Louis that Niall said _delicate_ , not _dainty_ , didn’t improve matters either. They shoveled dirt and moved more hay. Niall leaves them be soon after noon to make lunch, they eat and then they work some more, because the hay stacks seem to be endless. By the end of the day, when the sun’s started to dip and all Zayn can see is his bed, calling his name, aching for him to lay down and never leave it ever again, he feels better than he has in a long time. Probably too long. Most likely, he’s never felt this good.

It’s hard to focus on that though, on the voice in his head telling him he’s doing _good_ , when there are baked potatoes and grilled chicken wings on the plate in front of him. And when he pushes the plate away from himself, not yet showered, not even tired anymore, he doesn’t think he’s ever eaten anything as good in his life either.

So it’s not that the days don’t improve from being yelled at first thing in the morning. It’s not that. It’s that Zayn knows it’s just one day out of the many, many to come. And as much as he saw himself fighting it, cursing everyone along the way and being a bigger dick about it than Louis – Zayn’s already saw through that though – day in and day out, he can’t quite keep up.

But one good thing about working all day and sleeping straight through the night, because your body aches for the chance to recuperate and rest up, falling onto the covers without knowing what time is it, not knowing much else than that you’re already asleep, is not keeping track of what day it is, of how many meals you’ve had as the sun practically whooshes by above your head. Zayn’s body aches in ways he never thought it would, this time not because of bruises and black eyes, but sore muscles that have been seriously overworked. The days just fly by in a shocking contrast to counting each minute of each day, ticking ticking ticking.

As he sits back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head and feeling the pull of tightly wound strings in his shoulders, Louis starts collecting their plates, pilling them one on top of the other, forks and all, carrying them carefully to the sink. Niall cooks and Louis does the dishes, that’s their deal. Zayn’s happy he’s left completely out of it, though most days he can’t help but stick his nose into a pan and pretend like he knows what Niall is talking about when he asks if it needs another pinch of thyme. Zayn hums noncommittally, half shakes half nods his head and joins Louis on the couch instead.

“I call shotgun!” Niall yells from somewhere in the house.

“Not like you have to,” Louis shouts back and from looking at the back of his head, Zayn can see he’s rolling his eyes.

“What’s that about?” Zayn’s also learned in these past few days that rather than waiting to be asked a question and then avoiding having to answer at all costs, it’s easier to ask and be one who waits for answers instead of the one who gives them. It easier to not lie that way as well.

Louis hums as he scrubs the pan, more violently than Zayn’s ever seen anyone do so. “When Niall moved in,” he sighs and lets the pan soak in the water for a while longer, “we used to fight about the shower, so we came up with the idea that whoever called it first right after dinner, gets to shower first.” Shrugging like it’s no big deal, Louis turns and smiles like he does only few and far times in between, talking about the old dog that passed last year, or his family or the boys, Niall and less often, Harry. “He forgets that I’m otherwise busy,” he lifts a plate to show Zayn, “right after dinner.”

“I get his enthusiasm, I can’t wait to shower either,” Zayn adds, because he’s been half fantasizing about this time of day, this moment right here, since he woke up.

“What are you waiting for then?”

“To feel my legs again,” he chuckles, but it’s more dry than humorous. Zayn doesn’t think losing the feeling in your legs is funny in any scenario.

“That bad, huh? Maybe this whole physical activity thing isn’t for you.” It’s not mean, the way Louis says it. Zayn hasn’t had the longest time to figure him out, but what he’s pretty sure of is that at the end of the day, besides being the enormous dickhead that he is, deep down, Louis cares. He cares whether Niall’s had enough to eat or if Zayn’s sleeping well enough during the night and he barely even knows him – by no fault of Louis’. Louis always takes seconds at breakfast, but it’s never more than Niall. He waits for Zayn on the porch at the end of the day, to make sure he’s made it to the house, because Zayn likes to joke that one of these days he’s either gonna have to crawl or just sleep in the barn next to horses. He’s comforted by the idea it’d be better than sleeping in the field with the cows. Not that he’s allowed near the animals yet. Something about earning it.

“Nah, I’ll get over it.”

“You better.”

“Don’t want to see me go just yet?” Zayn jokes.

Louis snorts. “More like don’t wanna do your work.”

“Thanks,” Zayn wheezes as he stands up, holding onto the edge of the table just to be safe. It’s not that bad, but it would be better if his knees got the idea that Zayn needs to stand up as well as sit. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis drawls, even turns around and grins, the bastard. “Now go shower.”

“Yeah yeah, going.” And he does, because he’s starting to smell himself and that’s never a good sign. But, Zayn can’t help to think hopefully as he takes off his thin shirt before he’s even in the bathroom, that maybe all this physical work might be good for him at the end of the day. If nothing else, his legs are going to be ripped pretty soon going by the scorching numbness that hasn’t gone away since the first day. And, less hopefully, as if he’s remembering a trauma, like a flash of something he’s tried so hard to forget, Zayn thinks of what his dad would say if he saw him now, his son the physical worker, his son who has a job that makes him sweat through his clothes and not because adrenaline’s pumping trough his veins either. As he steps under the steaming spray, Zayn wonders if his dad would be proud, if he’d slap his shoulder and say, _That’s my son, my only son_ , like he did when Zayn was ten and eleven and twelve, but not when he turned thirteen, not anymore. Not for a long time.

Zayn takes his time. He was the ‘get in, get out’ type of person who could shower during commercials and still make it back to the couch in time to not miss anything. He never cared what his soap smelled like, as long as it did its job, or what brand it was or if the water ran hot enough or not. As long as it wasn’t freezing it was good enough for Zayn, who never put too much thought into things in general. Not until everything was taken away from him – the soap, the lukewarm water practically scolding most days – not that anyone cared – the curtain and the walls and the privacy, the choice to be quick about it. Once you have to take a shower in front of twenty other guys, it’s at the forefront of your thoughts all of a sudden. And once you get all of it back, down to the fluffy towel hanging right outside the plastic blue curtains, you take your time. You take all the time just to lather yourself up in silence, without having to worry about wondering eyes.

Feeling like he must’ve melted some part of himself in the shower, letting it drip down the drain, Zayn puts on loose sweats Niall gave him and an oversized old ripped t-shirt that he remember being a controversial item in his family’s home what with all the holes at the hems. Now though, no one bats an eye as he makes his way to the living room where someone’s talking.

But before he even says anything, before he knows what’s going on and Louis or Niall can explain, Zayn’s already shaking his head no.

“We’re going out.”

“What? Why? Don’t you want to go to bed?” Zayn hears how whiny his voice sounds, but in the moment, he couldn’t care less.

“It’s Saturday,” Louis says with a grin. It’s supposed to tell him something, the fact that it’s a Saturday, but other than the fact that it’s been six days since he’s come here, Zayn’s none the wiser.

“And…”

“And on Saturdays we go out,” Niall explains helpfully while Louis keeps on grinning at him. It’s unsettling.

Zayn whines some more, before he says, “Do I have to?” quietly enough to count as talking to himself.

“Yes,” Louis says briskly as Niall goes with, “We have Sundays off, no work, no nothing.”

“Oh.” That’s interesting.  It also doesn’t change much. “Can’t I just sit this one out?” he asks as what he knows is his last attempt, because Louis stops grinning, thankfully, and just looks at him instead, smirks a little.

“What do you think?”

–

Niall offers to drive, Louis calls shotgun and Zayn says he’ll walk. He wants to say it’s because he knows himself well enough, because he promised to be good or anything along the lines that would make him sound like he’s grown in any way since he came here, but it’s Paul’s words, _don’t fuck_ _up_ that guide him, _one strike_ , his parents’ disappointment, and Harry, whatever Harry would even do, though Zayn can’t say much for that one because he’s not yet met the man who hired him. There’s barely even been a whiff of his name, sides from the occasional threat here and there that Louis just loves making. Zayn figured that’s because of how fast all the light seems to leave Niall’s eyes when that happens. It’s as fun to watch as it’s completely terrifying.

“It’s not that far away, stop exaggerating,” Niall chides after Louis’ complains about having to walk, _it’s so far, my legs are gonna fall off, I’m telling ya, this is taking forever_ , for the fifth time. Zayn would’ve done it sooner if he wasn’t the reason why in the first place. “We’re almost there.”

“Liar.”

“Louis, the bar’s right there,” Niall waves in the direction of the flickering lights Zayn’s had his eye on for the past couple of minutes, because the road through town seems to be perfectly straight, with only one left and then right turn to get there from the ranch. It’s less than a ten minute walking distance altogether, but leave it to Louis to make it sound like they’ve been walking for miles and miles with no end in sight. Now that they’re almost there though, Louis whistles, screams, “Losers,” and bolts for the bar.

Niall’s already shaking his head – something he does a lot – but he doesn’t pick up on his own speed, thankfully, because Zayn doesn’t know if he’d be able to manage a half assed jog at this point. He’s trying to figure out how he got cajoled into doing this in the first place, because he’s never been a big bar goer or much of an alcohol drinker, but he guesses Niall and Louis have their persuasive ways about them. It’s that, or Zayn doesn’t want to get on their bad side. Either or.

“Louis gets excited when there’s beer.”

“I see that, yeah.”

“Word of advice,” Niall stops them a couple of feet away from where a sign in bright red letter says _Old Corner Bar_ , “Try to loosen up tonight. Have a drink and have a good time.”

Zayn smiles, because Niall just might be his favorite person as of this week, with Louis floating somewhere further down his two person list – Paul doesn’t count, Zayn doesn’t think – and humors him with, “I’ll do my best,” because Niall deserves it and Zayn said he’d be better. He’s going to be good and if good means slightly drunk then so be it.

“All I’m asking for.”

“All I can do,” Zayn agrees, maybe looking forward to a cold beer or two.

–

One or two end up being five, because Zayn’s a sucker for a drink someone just hands him without even asking as it turns out. He’s learned that about himself tonight. Zayn also knows now that he doesn’t like the taste of bourbon or scotch, but whiskey isn’t that bad, the burn less fire and more pleasant warmth. There were also people, many people, tall and short people with names Zayn swears he remembered until just five minutes ago, but not so much anymore.

“Did ya have a good time?”

“I did,” Zayn’s nodding, “I did.”

“I did too Niall, thanks for asking,” Louis huffs around a smile. They’re all smiling, all happy and slightly buzzed. They are definitely not walking in a straight line, that’s for sure.

“I know you did, smartass,” Niall counters, shoving Louis so that he stumbles over his feet, but he manages to stay upright, which is something. “I was asking Zayn because he seemed nervous before.”

“I did?”

Niall shrugs, but he knows it means ‘yes’ more than ‘I don’t know.’

“I just haven’t…” Zayn searches for the most suitable word, but the only thing he comes up with is, “Socialized, in a while.”

“Why’s that?” Louis’ sidles up next to him so that their shoulders are brushing. It’s too close.

“Nice try,” Zayn scoffs, because he’s _buzzed_ not drunk off his ass, which is what he’d need to be for Louis to get anything out of him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” With raised arms, Louis walks up the stairs of the house and pushes away the screen door. He must check the front door, Zayn doesn’t know why, because he saw him lock it himself when they left. But then the door opens on first try, no key anywhere near Louis’ hands and Zayn gives up. He might be wrong about the whole ‘only buzzed’ thing.

Louis waits for them at the door, holding it open for Niall and then Zayn. They all take off their shoes, some more elegantly than others, but they all line them up against the wall, even Louis, who usually kicks them off and leaves them wherever that happened to be. Zayn frowns, but then he shrugs. He can’t complicate taking shoes off like this. Not this late in the evening.

“Water?” Niall asks, or he more says, because he’s leading them to the kitchen with a spring in his step until he stops in the doorway with a gentle, “Hey,” falling from his lips.

Zayn stops right behind Niall, peering into the kitchen to see who it is. And it’s a – well, a man. A man is sitting on the kitchen island, just like Niall did that first day, with a glass between his hands and his shoulders tight and slumped, like he’s hunching over himself.

“Why didn’t you come out?” Louis hops over to the man, who straightens up as soon as Louis’ as good as standing practically between his legs. “We missed ya.”

“I was tired,” the man hints a smile. “But I bet you had a good time even without me there.”

“Don’t we always?” Niall asks from the doorway, where Zayn seems to be stuck.

“As long as there’s beer,” Louis says, and they all chuckle, because it is true.

Louis pats the man’s thigh and Niall salutes him, properly salutes with his arm stiff and hand at his forehead, his feet bumping together before the man laughs dryly and they leave Zayn standing there. He doesn’t know if he can’t or doesn’t want to move. He might just be too caught up by the man’s loud green shirt that floats around his torso even without a draft, the windows closed shut, or his gold boots. Zayn doesn’t feel proud at being right about the boots. He doesn’t know what he feels.

He takes a tentative step forward. “Hi.”

Harry looks over at him and nods.

“I’m Zayn.”

Harry nods again.

“You talked to Paul? You’re the… friend?”

“I did. I am. And I told him you’re getting the hang of things around here.”

Zayn nods this time.

“Are you? Getting the hang of things?”

“I think so. Yeah. Yes,” Zayn stutters and he doesn’t think it’s because of the beers he had. “Niall and Louis are helping.”

“That’s good.” Harry finishes his glass and puts it on the counter with a _thunk_ after he hops off, his boots clacking on the hardwood floor. “That’s good.”

“Um…”

“Good night, Zayn.”

“Good night.” Zayn’s had his fair share of confusing days, but this one takes the cake. “Good night, Harry.”


	2. If you're going my way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be up in another 7 months :)

It’s silent. Zayn imagines there are birds chirping and crickets trying to cool down for the upcoming heat the day will bring, but there’s nothing, not the wind rustling the grass or the rooster, probably too asleep to notice the sun coming up right outside Zayn’s opened window. There’s not so much as a pin to be heard.

His head’s a bit cottony when Zayn opens his eyes with a deep breath of air, because he hasn’t had a drop to drink in two years if not more, not liking the way his thoughts jumble and twist since he was fifteen and on his way to developing a problem. Saturday took a toll on his stomach and head, but as he runs a hand over his face, Zayn thinks blowing off steam on Saturday will be his second favorite thing to do on this ranch. Because Sundays, Sundays are going to be the days he’ll wait for, doing ticks on the wall to count them down, like he always thought he should’ve been doing.

There’s a lack of anything to do on Sundays, or Zayn guesses there’s plenty that could be done, they just don’t do it. And it’s absolute bliss. Zayn lounged around all day, first in the morning, because no one came to yell, no one bothered to drag him out of bed even when the sun was high up in the sky. Then on the front porch and the backyard, lying down in the grass and soaking up the sun as if he doesn’t sweat because of it the rest of the week. He drove around the woods on his bike without cornflakes or sunflower oil in his backpack and he lounged some more.

Around late afternoon, after they’ve eaten and Louis disappeared into his room to “nap, because I deserve it,” they all congregated on the front porch, Zayn sitting on the white wooden swing, Louis spread out on the bench, more subdued than usual, while Niall sat on the front steps, playing his guitar quietly enough for it to be pleasant background noise to the oncoming sunset. And then around eight o’clock, as they almost fell asleep outside, Zayn took a long shower, marveling at how the warm water was pleasant, but not necessary for the first time since he came here, said goodnight, and went to his bedroom, _his own bedroom, the best thing he has going for him right now_ and just slept. Slept for almost ten hours, only to wake up to perfect silence.

Lying in his bed with the blanket pulled up to his chest and his window open, because he can’t get enough of the draft pulling by the curtain and winding down along the floor to escape through the crack beneath the door, Zayn blinks up at the ceiling and smiles. Without so much as a groan, he turns to lie on his side, his hands beneath the pillow so that he can look outside at how the sun is rising and waits, wondering if the rooster will manage to beat Louis this morning.

But Zayn’s only left with a couple more minutes of glorious silence, before he hears footsteps, a loud clacking sound echoing upstairs, fading out and then back in on Zayn’s floor. And then two seconds pass before his door is open wide, the pale pink curtains pulled outside by the wind.

“Get up, get – Oh.”

“Good morning,” Zayn rasps with a smile at Louis’ expression. “Sleep well?” Zayn lifts himself up on his elbow to see Louis better and to make sure he sees his wide smirk of pure satisfaction.

“Why? Why did you have to take my favorite part of the day away from me?”

“I mean, I knew you were a dickhead…” Zayn drawls, still smiling, still happy with himself and how his morning is turning out.

Louis scowls, takes a step closer and points his finger at Zayn as if it were a dagger. “If Niall is already awake… I don’t know what I’ll do, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“I can just pretend to be asleep if that would make you feel better?”

“You mock me now,” Louis huffs, turning around to go assault Niall next and Zayn indulges him in having the last word, because he hears it – how he can’t hear Louis. His sneakers don’t make a sound as he walks away from his room, on the stairs or up in Niall’s room.

Zayn closes his eyes with the realization that Harry actually does live in this house, even if it seemed like anything but for the past week. There wasn’t a single sign of him besides those boots at the front door. Not a sound or a peep, not so much as a flash of him anywhere. He might not want to admit it, but Zayn was worried Harry didn’t actually exist at first, because Louis and Niall seemed to avoid ever bringing up the man, and even when they did, they talked about him like a fictional character that people fretted more than anything else. And now that Zayn’s met him, seen him with his own two eyes and exchanged those two words with him, he feels less frightened than he is worried. To sum up his new boss, Zayn would say Harry looks exhausted.

Not the tired a couple of hours of sleep can fix, but the exhaustion that sets into your eyes, seeps in the wrinkles around them and pulls at your back, your bones, your disposition. And from what Zayn’s seen, Harry won’t be helped by a full night’s rest. But maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said Harry won’t let him fuck up, that he’ll keep him on the right path, because Harry must work hard, every day, from sunrise to sundown, Sundays included apparently. Zayn understands the exhaustion, and just because he didn’t come here to make friends, doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish Harry would take a break. From what he’s seen so far though, Zayn also understands why he can’t.

When he checks the time, Zayn sees that’s it’s early, that he woke up way before than he had to and that even Louis must’ve gone to bed sooner than usual. So he spends ten more minutes lying in bed, trying not to think about Harry and laughing when he hears Louis yell, “You too!” upstairs, clearly not having a good start to his day.

–

There’s eggs, slices of wrinkled bacon that Zayn shakes his head at when Niall offers it to him, an array of cornflakes and oatmeal, steaming milk in a blue steel pot and bread. As soon as Zayn jumps down the last two stairs, the smell of breakfast engulfs him pleasantly, his stomach rumbling for some sustenance.

“Good morning,” he starts to say loudly, like he does every morning when he knows he won’t have to get on his bike before having coffee. He didn’t have time to get spoiled when coffee was a luxury and breakfast a rotten banana and a piece of bread Zayn eyed skeptically but never ate. And the memories of pancakes and waffles, of pies made after dinner to be devoured before school remain as bitter slices of knickknacks Zayn keeps folded in his back pocket. It’s taken discipline and the gut-wrenching knowledge that it’s all in the past for him to not linger on those bits and pieces. At least never for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

Today, the words die somewhere in the middle of Zayn’s throat when he sees that after a week or time, there are four plates on the table, four sets of forks and knives and that right opposite of what Zayn’s come to see as his spot, is Harry, blinking up at him, slow and tired. So Zayn clears his throat and says a subdued, “Good morning,” this time with a subtle nod.

Louis grumbles something to the table, but there’s a mug outstretched towards Zayn where he’s stuck standing, looking anywhere but at Harry, who’s leaning back in his chair waiting for them to start breakfast, so he thinks Louis’ mood won’t stick for long. The general mood, though, seems to be stamped with a big bolded _awkward_.

When Zayn thinks about his parents, his family or the life he had before he messed it all up and everything got ruined, he doesn’t think about some obscure childhood memory or his mother’s eyes. There’s no painful longing or stubborn devotion, it’s just breakfast. The thing Zayn gets stuck on every time is his dad – a well-built, strong, quiet man – with Zayn’s little sister in his lap, both of them eating their food while Yaser read the paper. If Zayn was honest with himself, he’d admit that anytime he thinks about the past, his dad’s always at the forefront of his mind, but he’s not, because Zayn doesn’t work like that.

His dad was never a man of many words, never speaking more than a couple of sentences at a time yet somehow always making them resonate. When he did speak, it was in a calm manner, concise, as if he was reciting practiced phrases, reading them off a prompter – that’s what Zayn imagined when he was a kid, that his dad was the news anchor, except instead of current events, he was reporting on their lives. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever heard him raise his voice, nothing like his mother’s shrill tone that made his palms sweat if it was directed at him or not.

That’s what Zayn thinks about as he walks around the table to his spot with his coffee cup pressed against his lips – he wonders what his dad would say about him now. If he would raise his voice finally, for the first time.

“So?” Louis mumbles with his mouth full after they’ve been eating in silence, sides for their forks clicking against the plates. Zayn is thankful for Louis’ inability to stay silent for more than a blink until he goes on with, “What do you think? You gonna stay?”

But no matter how much Zayn may pretend he doesn’t miss his family, he’s never been one to talk this early either. It’s one of the things he misses – the only thing – the silence he wrapped around himself like a blanket for two years. He didn’t have to talk and he barely had to listen. _Just keep your head down and mouth shut._ It doesn’t work here.

So he raises an eyebrow, doesn’t look anywhere near Harry, thinks _like I have a choice_ and says, “Yeah, think so,” with a nod and a smile.

“You’re probably happy to hear that,” Louis says, looking right at Harry with what Zayn would say is a smirk. He’d also say he never wanted Louis’ face to look like that while he talked about him with Harry. It doesn’t feel right, like it means something it shouldn’t.

“I am?”

Zayn dares to shift his eyes to Harry. He has his spoon lined up with his mouth when he says it, eyes narrowing doubtfully and his lips twisting into something too, before he opens his mouth to eat his oatmeal. Tongue first, Zayn doesn’t fail to notice. Zayn hasn’t failed to notice a lot of things when he jumped into the kitchen this morning. Not Harry’s beaten up brown boots that are a stark contrast to his glittery ones, nor his shirt, another bright one, this time yellow, which looks just as blinding as the green from the other night.

“Well, you don’t like having to look for new workers, right?” Niall pipes in while he tries to stab at a piece of egg and sausage at the same time.

“And,” Louis steps in, talking over Niall, “You’re great, Zayn. We’d miss ya.”

“Yeah, and that.”

Harry hums into his spoon, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as nod, so Zayn says a weak, “Thank you,” and hopes they’re done talking about him.

It’s officially been a week. Seven and a half days, seven nights that Zayn’s slept on the bed that’s his own, and he won’t lie and say that this is it, that he’s Home. It’s not the place he’s been searching for all his life and now that he’s found it, he’s never going to leave. Zayn won’t lie about that, because it’s only been seven days since he drove up to the house with a cloud of dust following closely behind his rear tire which Louis yelled at him for, said he won’t be able to breathe again, and that’s no time at all.

Zayn’s stopped getting his hopes up, he’s done believing people just for the hell of it. _Not a word_. But it’s hard to remember why at five in the morning, while he sits around the table eating breakfast with people he’s only met a week ago, looking forward to start the day.

–

“And that’s the barn,” Louis says around a yawn, pointing over his shoulder at it. It has to be bigger than the house, the main doors taking over half of the front with a faded red roof. It’s definitely bigger than the house, Zayn decides. “We keep the tractor in there, not that you’re ever gonna use it. But it’s still good to know, so.”

“Right.” Zayn nods, because he feels like he has to, even if he wants to ask what Louis meant by that, _you’re never gonna use it_. It didn’t sound like a snarky comment on Zayn’s unwillingness to get into a car, though Louis may not have noticed that, but you never know with Louis.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs heavily. Harry ordering him to give Zayn a tour, an _actual_ tour of the ranch, must be an incredible imposition. “There’s also hay for the cows and the horses when they don’t feel like munching on the fresh stuff anymore, which is _all the time_. Those cows…” Louis turns and points somewhere to the field behind Zayn. He turns and sees there are more than ten heads of cattle leisurely standing about. Zayn never thought he was going to be jealous of a bunch of cows. “They’re more spoiled than you and _I_ will ever be, let me tell you that. Ridiculous.”

 Zayn smiles at the emphasis on the pronouns. He’s figured out that Louis’ memory doesn’t falter. He might pretend he forgot what Harry told him to do and do nothing instead, but he does. Louis brings up stories from the past, when he started working on the farm, when Niall joined them, or one of Harry’s particularly bad days Zayn just _has_ to hear about, like they all took place yesterday. Zayn doesn’t bother. If it’s not important, he doesn’t keep a memory. There’s no point.

Smiling and nodding like he has any idea of what the rest of it means, Zayn also shrugs, and Louis picks up on it immediately. He narrows his eyes and takes a step closer to him, pointing his finger – Louis must love pointing at things, it probably makes him feel powerful. “You know nothing about cows or barns or chickens do you?”

“Besides what you just told me? I can’t say I do.”

“Stop smirking! You let me go on and on about… about everything!” Louis’ probably referring to the extensive monologue he had about their grooming and dietary needs. Or maybe about the mating patterns of chickens. It was all interesting to Zayn, so he didn’t stop him. By the looks of it, Louis doesn’t agree.

“It looked like you were really into it.” Zayn shrugs, but he can’t stop chuckling a bit at the end.

“Oh,” Louis laughs too. “If you think _I’m_ into cows, you got another thing coming.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” Louis shakes his head. Zayn doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.

–

“Hey…” Zayn says. He has to push his fallen hair out of his eyes and also remember to cut it as soon as he can or he’ll go crazy, and then wipe his forehead with his forearm if he doesn’t want to be blinded by his own sweat. Louis stops shoveling hay for a second to look at him, prompting Zayn to go on where he left of, but Zayn has to think for a second, because he doesn’t want to say anything out of line. “Um, what’s Harry’s story?”

His fake nonchalance probably doesn’t fool anyone, but Zayn still pretends to          have said it offhand as he goes back to gathering up hay in a pile.

“His story?” Louis asks, because of course he does.

“You know,” Zayn shrugs, “His deal. He’s the owner, right?”

“Yeah,” Niall replies, in a much brighter tone than Louis’.

“Does he work here too or…?”

“Or?”

It feels like pulling teeth. “I don’t know? Sleep all day?”

“Ha,” Niall snorts.

Louis doesn’t look as amused as he says, “All Harry does is work,” quick and sharp.

“Since he was little,” Niall agrees.

“His grandparents owned this place…”

“And Harry started working from the moment he could walk.”

“…hasn’t stopped.”

“Never takes a vacation and –” Niall smiles in that affectionate way he does when he talks about anyone he cares about, and Louis does too when he says, “He wouldn’t know how to enjoy it even if he did.”

Zayn doesn’t blink. “Are you two related?”

Niall frowns and Louis says, “What? No,” without sounding offended.

“Dating? Fucking?” Zayn pushes, because people don’t talk like they do, with one thought, completing each other’s sentences like they know what the other one is thinking without some form of intimacy.

They snort at the same time. Zayn takes it as a no.

“I’ve got a girl,” Niall shrugs, blushing.

“And Niall’s not my type,” Louis says right after, giving Zayn a steady look to see his reaction, because Zayn gets what Louis’ trying to say – he _gets_ it. So in lieu of trying to figure out if they’re at least very distant cousins in the fifth knee four times removed, Zayn nods and says, “I don’t know. Maybe with enough whiskey?” as he eyes Niall from the top of his head, down to his toes and back again with a wink at the end.

It makes Niall blush a deeper red and Louis’ grin widens, apparently also getting what Zayn’s trying to say. It’s good. They’re good. It’s been a week and Zayn’s managed to not fuck it up yet, which is better than good.

—

And then a week later, when Zayn jumps into the kitchen but doesn’t yell out his ‘good morning’ without checking who is sat at the table first, because Harry’s gotten in the habit of joining them sometimes now, which going by Louis’ ‘You going to make breakfast a regular thing now?’ doesn’t actually happen that often. Or it didn’t until now and Zayn doesn’t want to think about what changed, because he might know, but he isn’t sure if he wants to be right.

So when he sees Niall behind the stove and Louis slumped over his plate, but no one else, no bright shirts or boots, scowls that Zayn thinks are permanent features, he shouts, “Mornin’,” making Louis groan and Niall jump.

They eat in silence. When it’s there, when Niall keeps his eyes locked on his food with a smile that’s too intimate for comfort and Louis can’t seem to do much more than hum as he drinks his coffee and pokes the eggs with his fork, but doesn’t bring himself to eat it, Zayn can’t stand it. He’s suffocated by it, the motionless gelatinous silence that surrounds them, like a scarf wrapped too tight, laces on his boots cutting off blood flow to his feet. Like a strait-jacket he can move his hands in, the quietness of it all prompts him to talk. How he slept, what he dreamt of with omissions here and there, the weather, the hay – anything that keeps the silence at bay, anything but about himself, Zayn talks and talks until Louis and Niall join him.

And then Zayn misses it, the unobtrusiveness he thrived in for two years – the stillness, the way he could zone out from the chatter around him for days on end if he wanted to, without the typical, ‘Cat got your tongue?’ at least one of his sisters would use to rile him up. As Niall can’t seem to shut up about how Betsy – Zayn still doesn’t know the animal’s names, even after Louis listed them off one after the other in some kind of an order – smiled at him, literally smiled when he told her a knock-knock joke the other day, Zayn’s the one staring at his plate, eyes unfocused and ears shut. When Louis goes on and on – it doesn’t matter about _what_ – Zayn doesn’t know who he wants to strangle more – himself or Louis.

And today has been steadily shifting from pleasant to suffocating with each passing audible _tick_ of the grandfather clock in the living room, until the moment Louis looks up suddenly, milk dribbling down his chin in the rush to chew. “I almost forgot,” he smirks at Zayn, who knows this isn’t going to be good news. “You, my friend, are on fence duty today.”

Zayn frowns. “Fence duty?”

“The cows need a fence,” Niall explains and Zayn says, “Really, haven’t noticed,” wanting to apologize for his tone right after.

“Um.” They’re both looking at him expectantly, but Zayn’s lost for words now, because he can see they want a specific reaction. “Well, I mean, that’s great, I guess.”

“Mhm,” Louis nods, the smirk still on his face when he adds a cheery, “You’ll hate it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Harry’s also on fence duty.”

Zayn blanches. They’ve barely spoken, haven’t actually, not since that first night which Zayn counts as one of the most awkward encounters he’s had the displeasure of having. And the strangest, because as much of it as Zayn can remember, he’d swear Harry didn’t even so much as look at him. And hasn’t since, for that matter.

So Zayn says a doubtful, “Okay?” and hopes either Louis or Niall will elaborate on their own.

“Harry can get…” Louis starts and Niall suggests, “Peculiar?”

“Yes Niall, thank you. Harry can get kind of _peculiar_ about his work. And his cows.”

“His cows?”

“All his animals, really,” Niall says, picking up their plates and dumping them all in the sink. “But especially the cows.”

“Why?”

“Nobody knows,” Louis stage whispers, waving his hand around to add his usual dramatic flair.

“Well, okay then.” Zayn can do this. He can put up a fence, whatever that entails, either digging up holes or slamming the pillars into the ground. He can do it, even if Harry ignores him. _It’s just a job_.

Louis shouts, “Good luck!” when Zayn’s putting on his boots and then as he opens the door, Niall adds his, “And don’t take it personally!” just as loudly, just as worryingly.

–

There’s something to be said about Harry’s cows. Louis or Niall or even Harry himself could probably talk about them for days on end, but what Zayn thinks as he makes his way across the field on the right side of the property, his boots crunching the freshly cut grass, is they’re _big_. Having a general idea of what a cow is and driving past them just yesterday is absolutely nothing compared to being a few very short, too short, feet away from ten of them. Zayn can’t get the idea that if they wanted to they could just stampede right at him out of his head, which isn’t entirely bad, because this way, he doesn’t have to focus on Harry standing almost a yard away, piling wooden pillars out of the pickup and onto the ground.

Zayn keeps his steps measured and slow, not exactly rushing to neither start work nor spend the day avoiding looking directly at Harry. Even if Zayn doesn’t know why, he thinks he should at least return the favor of pretending Harry isn’t there. But as each move brings him closer to both, Zayn can’t ignore Harry anymore, can’t keep his eyes on the grass and fain interest in every strand. When he makes himself look up, Zayn’s immediately blinded by the bright pink of Harry’s shirt that even from far away _feels_ silk and smooth. It shines in the unrelenting sun, flashing like a disco ball and not at all reassuring like a lighthouse, but just as obvious, calling Zayn closer.

“Hey.” Zayn doesn’t know where he stands with Harry. Niall is easy going enough to not have to worry about that kind of thing, Louis will tell you exactly where he stands with you, but  Zayn will admit that Harry looked like he wanted to be just about anywhere else instead of talking where he is right now. But Zayn doesn’t care. He has no one to impress or to charm, he’s not here to talk. All he has to do is work, work and work some more, until Paul tells him he’s worked enough.

Harry doesn’t so much as blink Zayn’s way before he goes back to unloading the pickup, turning his back to Zayn. But then Zayn hears a faint, “You’re late,” he knows he isn’t imagining.

“Sorry? What was that?”

“You’ll be moving these,” Harry throws a pillar on the ground, adding it to the pile he made alone, because no one told Zayn he didn’t have time to eat breakfast or drink another cup of coffee. Harry kicks at the bottom of the pile and then looks at Zayn. It feels more like he’s looking through him, seeing something Zayn couldn’t even begin imagining, and then looks towards the open field, the moment gone.

“Line them,” Harry instructs, extends his hand straight ahead. “I did the first two so you know where to go. And leave a bit of room between them.”

Zayn’s had plenty of conversations where the other person didn’t look at him. Whether they didn’t care to or had to fight to keep their eyes turned away, because they couldn’t look at him, disappointed and sad and angry and feeling too much at the same time. It never matters, because you know when someone doesn’t look at you because they don’t want to. It hurt, the last time he had to beg someone to just turn around, _please look at me,_ just to see their eyes, _please_.

Now it feels like Harry is working for it, avoiding looking at Zayn as he grabs the shovel next to where he’s standing. “That’s it. I’ll tell you when to stop,” Harry adds, still speaking slow as molasses, in no rush for being bothered by lateness.

Zayn doesn’t know what else to do but nod and get to it. He doesn’t think there’s anything left to be said.

So he walks over to the pile and looks down at the pillars. He wants to count them before he does anything else, because he feels like Harry will want a report when the sun goes down and Niall calls them to dinner. _How many have you done? How many left?_ Zayn gets to five when he hears a groan behind his back. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it at all.

This whole thing is stupid, he decides, bending down to gets his hands on the end of one pillar, grabbing and pulling it of the stack. It’s all stupid. Harry probably doesn’t have a single care, a single thought for Zayn, yet here he is, counting a pile of wood just in case. He tightens his fingers and starts walking backwards, cursing the pillar and the fence, Harry and himself, because really, he only has himself to blame for the splinters he’s bound to get by the end of the day.

It gets easier and harder with each one. There’s a blister on his finger for each pillar he drags behind him and a splinter for every time he pulls too hard, wanting to be done with it faster. But they’re worth it just because he’s got a couple of them lined ahead of Harry, who’s digging the holes in the dry dirt. Zayn may not have pulled the short end of the straw after all.

Except it’s not just the pillars that put splinters into Zayn skin, because when he’s on his tenth one – counting them against his own will – Harry says, “You know, your job would be easier if you drove the pickup as you went along,” out of breath.

Zayn turns toward him, something he’s been trying not to do as they works next to each other, parallel to the field. He doesn’t know why, Zayn just thought he’d better focus on what he has to do and not try to see if Harry still has his shirt on, because Zayn wanted to take his own off, but he didn’t want to come off as forward. Louis and Niall always managed to keep theirs on, but they didn’t work in the beating sun, dragging wood their own weight behind themselves.

He’s stumped. Squinting at the sun – maybe against Harry talking to him as well – as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Nah, this is alright.”

Harry shrugs at him, pushing his hair off his forehead. “Doubt you’ll be saying that in an hour,” he says, and goes back to work, already digging the shovel into the ground.

Zayn snorts. He turns around and shields his eyes, because Harry’s not wrong. He’s barely done half a yard and he’s already sweating through his shirt. The wood’s heavy and awkward to hold, cutting at his skin. Zayn tried picking one up to hoist it over his shoulder rather than drag it along the ground when he almost toppled over under its weight. Harry isn’t playing around with this fence.

“I’ll be fine,” Zayn waves him off. He doesn’t have a choice. He gets his hands on another pillar when he swears he hears a murmured, “Sure you will.” He ignores it.

It’s distracting. Harry’s distracting, because unlike Zayn, he hasn’t stopped working, talking as he sticks the shovel in the hard earth and kicking it further down. Zayn noticed he groans every time he speaks around an especially unrelenting shove and Zayn hates himself picking up on something as ridiculous as a groan. That’s what has Zayn stumped, not the barely buttoned up shirt reveling Harry’s chest or his tight jeans. He barely notices either of those things.

So Zayn goes back to work too, dragging another piece of wood, again and again, over and over, and each time he walks back to the pickup to where Harry is making steady progress, he notices another thing about him, cataloging them all.

When he got there, Harry’s hair was slicked back, tidy and unified compared to the disarray of strands sticking left and right that’s on his head now. He keeps pushing it back and Zayn would say Harry’s annoyed by it, beause it won’t stay where he wants it to.

Then it’s his shirt. It was buttoned up almost to his throat before, but it’s like Harry’s losing his buttons with each hole he digs until he’s got it gaping open, hanging together by one single button that Zayn only slightly tries to undo with his eyes. But then he doesn’t have to, because a pillar later, Harry’s shirtless – skin gleaming in the sun, sweat at the small of his back, tattoos up and down his chest shirtless – and Zayn’s mouth is gaping open instead.

Zayn gathers himself as best as he can, but he half expects to see Harry naked on his way back. Whether it’s fortune or not, Harry keeps his pants up until late afternoon. By that point, Zayn’s palms are cracked and bleeding at his fingertips. He managed to cut himself with the second piece of wood, and other than his shoulders tightening with each step until he thinks there’s an elephant sitting on his back, it’s a day’s of good work.

“You should’ve brought gloves.”

“What?” Zayn whips his head around, caught off guard by Harry’s words and his proximity, leaning against the side of the pickup.

“Said you should’ve brought gloves,” Harry nods at Zayn’s hands. He keeps rubbing them together, hoping it’ll bring some feeling back to his palms.

“Oh, um, I didn’t know, they didn’t tell me,” Zayn stutters. He clears his throat and tries again with, “I didn’t know I’d be doing this all day.”

“We can switch if you want?” Harry offers, kindly with what Zayn gauges is a hint of worry in his eyes. But then he thinks he’s being too optimistic and shakes it off.

“I’ll be fine,” Zayn says again, because he will. He has to be.

Harry squints at him and since the sun is behind the trees already, it’s not because he has trouble seeing. “Sure you will.”

Zayn chooses to get back to work instead of thinking about how Harry looked at him, right at him, with concern and worry, as if Zayn was someone he had to even think about. He goes to grab an end of a pillar to pull it off of the pickup, having already carried the pile Harry managed to unload, when he jumps a good two foot into the air, because Harry’s standing right behind him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m working?” Zayn almost snaps, his heart beating in his ears.

Harry chuckles at him, “We’re done for the day,” but he doesn’t sound all that amused.

“Oh.”

“I mean, be my guest, but _I’m_ done.”

“No, no. We’re done.”

“What? Physical labor not your cup of tea?”

It’s almost a joke, so Zayn almost smiles, but he shakes his head instead. He doesn’t want to say _of course not, have you seen the state of me? My arms are like twigs,_ because he doesn’t want to bring himself down or give Harry reason to fire him. But being enthusiastic after working for almost thirteen hours with a short break for lunch – that Harry didn’t take, Zayn hadn’t failed to notice – is too much to ask.

Zayn shrugs and turns around to push the pillar back onto the pickup.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Harry’s closer to him, Zayn can feel him standing right behind him now. It’s too close.

He wants to turn around and give Harry one of his looks, the one that got him in trouble too many times, because Harry has to be joking. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever heard the kind of silence that lingers every time Harry joins them for breakfast. Louis and Niall try their best to break it, but without a fault, Harry stays close lipped and Zayn, well, he focuses on his food instead.

“Enough,” he says, chin up. “Don’t have much to say, I guess.” Or he doesn’t want to, it’s the same principle.

“Oh yeah?” Harry’s tone is every bit a challenge Zayn doesn’t want to hear, and as if he could read minds, Harry says, “Get in the car.”

And Zayn’s stumped. He has a feeling that it’s Harry’s general effect on the world, shutting people up and making them take a step back, mouth open and eyes wide, because that’s exactly what Zayn does. He collects himself enough to shake his head though, because this sounds weirdly specific. It can’t be that Harry just got lucky.

“No? Why not?”

He’s pushing. Zayn can see the wheels turning in Harry’s head and can tell he knows exactly what he says and why he says it. And it might’ve worked on Niall or Louis, may work on anyone else, but not on Zayn. Zayn doesn’t give in or give up. He takes everything in stride and as much as he might be holding his breath, he’s not asking ‘how high’. Especially not if it means breaking a promise, going back on his word and throwing all of his good work to the wind. Not for a short car ride.

“Wanna walk.”

“No you don’t.”

“What?”

“You can take a walk later. Come on, get in the car.” It’s like Harry doesn’t even hear him, because he’s climbing in the front seat and turning on the car in the next second, before Zayn has a chance to exhale.

Zayn clenches his fist and walks over to the passenger’s window. “Actually, I really am gonna walk, but thanks for the offer.” He smiles tightly when he feels the skin on his palm burn.

“Zayn.” Harry says sternly. “Get in the car.”

“Harry, I’m walking.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs, but neither of them moves. He has his hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead of him, at his precious cows and Zayn can’t keep his eyes off of Harry’s as he watches him breathe, his bare chest expanding. Zayn wasn’t sure if Harry knew how to say his name since he’s never did anything to prove him wrong.  Zayn also didn’t think he’d have a fight with Harry, or at least not this early on.

But then Harry leans back against the seat and closes his eyes like he’s given up, like all he wants to do is fall asleep. He sighs again and says, “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have told Paul,” before he changes gears and drives off, leaving Zayn standing there, in the middle of the field, wondering if he’s ever going to be good.

Zayn doesn’t know if his fight to be better is worth anything anymore.

–

Zayn wakes up by himself again. Maybe he just needed to get the swings of things, to meet the morning this early, say his hello and shake its hand for his eyes to get used to the day before the sun begins to rise. He’s stopped closing his window during the day last week, realized he was just wearing down the hinges, so the cool air flows over his face as he stares at the ceiling, wondering if he’ll still be on fence duty today.

He walked back to the house last night, taking slow, dragging steps across the field of cattle without paying them a single thought as he moved his feet, one after the other. Zayn felt every step in his back, maybe that’s how it’ll be from now on – he won’t be able to move a muscle without feeling the rest of them groan as well.

The walk could’ve taken him fifteen minutes, but Zayn didn’t want to rush or make an impression with how fast he could move. He’s done making impressions. Bringing up dust with each step, he kept his eyes on the few clouds dropping down to the horizon, watching how they moved, as if they were circling around him, praying sharks of the sky.

Paul didn’t say how much he told Harry, but it would have been stupid for Zayn to think he didn’t know anything. It would have been stupid for Harry not to ask. So Zayn was sure Harry had some knowledge of his past, like some brief synopsis of the fact Zayn’s served his time like he was supposed to, maybe why he was doing time in the first place.

And Harry knows all of that, after last night, there’s no doubt, but Zayn wonders what else Harry knows. Because there must have been more in that file Paul threw on the table, something like the model of the last car Zayn drove down the streets of his home town – the same town he couldn’t get away from fast enough. The name of the judge, his mother’s maiden name, the length of his sentence.

It was a Chevrolet. If Harry asks, Zayn can tell him that. But he doesn’t think Harry will.

It’s hard to think about anything else but the heavy exhale that collapsed Harry against his seat last night as Zayn tries to keep his eyes open. That night in the kitchen, Harry’s eyes had been dull, as if he were asleep already and yesterday wasn’t any different. It’s not the first time Zayn wonders when Harry gets to sleep if all he does is work, starting and finishing after the rest of them.

Zayn sits up on the bed with a groan, feeling his bones settle, his spine straining against the curve of his back as he hunches over, runs his hands over his face. When he stands up and starts looking for his jeans, the rooster croaks brokenly at the sun.

–

After breakfast, he’s sent out of the house with the words _fence duty_ ringing in his head. He had a feeling Harry won’t acknowledge what happened yesterday, but Zayn wasn’t sure until now, the grass crunching under his boots again.

When he reaches the pickup, Harry already has a shovel in the ground, a few feet away from the last hole he dug yesterday. Zayn goes straight to the back of the pickup without sparing a greeting that he knows wouldn’t be returned.

He’s trying to find the latch to open the back when a pair of gloves land on top of the pillars. Zayn jumps back right as Harry says, “Dig.”

“What?”

Wiping away the sweat already on his forehead, Harry nods over to the shovel stuck in the dirt at the end of the line Zayn made last night. “Meet me halfway.”

And without any further explanation, Harry goes back to shoveling dirt, leaving Zayn to stand there – again – before he does as he’s told.

As he starts moving to where Harry left him a shovel, putting on gloves, Zayn wonders what Harry would do if he stood up to one of his orders. _Line the pillars. Dig._ Maybe he’d just sigh again and carry on with his work. Or maybe Zayn would finally rile him up, scratch him the wrong way and Harry would finally snap. It’s only by repeating how he can’t ruin this that Zayn picks up the shovel and starts digging.  Maybe he’ll throw the gloves at Harry’s back next time.

He keeps his mind busy by humming under his breath. It’s mostly songs he wants to hear again and the ones that are stuck in his head from years ago, when they were playing on the radio while he sat next to his sisters eating breakfast. It’s probably what he misses the most, why he keeps thinking of pancakes and waffles instead of birthdays and holidays. It’s probably the only thing this place has in common with his childhood.

Zayn didn’t have pets as a kid, their house was small, stuck in the middle of more houses with almost a square of grass in front of it to call a yard and he never had to do more than take out the trash. He shared his room with all of his sisters, the bottom bunk in the corner the only place he could call his own, and the house was either eerily quiet or the walls were buzzing with noise, voices echoing up the stairs when all Zayn wanted was to read his books in peace.

But the breakfasts were like they are here. Everyone sitting at one table, waking up more with each spoonful of lucky charm, their parents reading the newspaper or cups of coffee and glasses of juice. The way Louis doesn’t remove his lips from the rim of his cup reminds Zayn of his mom. But he’d never say that out loud.

Zayn moves the last of the dirt from the space he made for yet another pillar as he brings his head up. He nods at his work and turns to walk further towards Harry when he sees him sitting down in the shade of the pickup, a beer bottle at his lips.

Without a thought, Zayn sticks his shovel in the ground and shakes off his gloves before he starts making his way over to Harry, who is fully lounging on the ground with is shirt more open than buttoned up, falling at his sides.

The steps to the side of him and falls down, sighing when his back hits the metal and he can already feel the cool of the shade.

Harry hums at him with a raised eyebrow and the beer pointed at Zayn. He takes it and takes a bigger sip than he intended, the cold liquid flowing down his throat refreshing. “Sorry,” he murmurs, ducking his head as he gives the bottle back.

“It’s fine, I have more in the front,” Harry says and Zayn doesn’t need to hear more before he’s standing up and getting himself one as well.

He opens the top with his teeth, almost whimpering when the cold air escaped the glass. It’s not even summer, not even the hottest it gets here, not even close.

“So,” Harry starts, but he must change his mind, because he pauses and squints at the distance. It might just be his way of thinking. “How are you liking Cloverville?”

“It’s…” Zayn tries to find a word, but all he can think of is, “Hot.”

Harry’s shoulders jump at that, almost like he laughs. “It’s not always like this.”

“I hope not.”

The bottle is sweating in his hand, dripping over his fingers, but for once Zayn isn’t going to complain about wet hands, because he hasn’t felt condensation in so long, he thinks he could scream with how quickly he presses the side of it to his chest, getting his shirt wet as well.

“So, about what I said yesterday,” Harry mumbles down at where his feet are pressed together. He’s wearing the battered old brown boots again. Zayn thinks the sparkly ones are for special occasions.

They’re sitting in a nice shade, drinking some cold beer and postponing going back to work. Zayn doesn’t want to think about anything right now. So he shrugs and says, “It’s whatever,” because right now, it is.

“It isn’t,” Harry rushes to say, but his words still drag. “I shouldn’t have crossed that line.”

If Harry’s looking for a response, he isn’t going to get one. Now Zayn’s the one squinting up at the blue of the sky.

“But I meant it,” Harry goes on, sighing into the bottle before he takes a sip. “Paul doesn’t have to know.”

Zayn can’t help but laugh. “He said you wouldn’t let me fuck up,” he says, looking at Harry from the corner of his eye, so he catches the moment his lips twist up into a smile. _You should smile more_. Zayn thinks he sees a dimple.

“I think as long as you don’t steal my car, it’s gonna be okay.”

Zayn raises his chin. He wants to come off as defiant, but he only lets sweat drip down his neck. “How do you know I won’t?”

“Well, I guess all I can do is ask nicely.”

Zayn stares at him.

Harry turns around and pouts at him, says, “Please don’t steal my car, it’s the only one we have and we kind of need it,” or he more whines it, nodding as he does so the curls on top of his head fall in front of his eyes. Zayn still doesn’t say anything, too busy wondering how someone can go from being so tense and wound up to joking about carjacking with his bottom lip stuck out.  

“That was meant to be funny.” Harry shrugs at him, like he’s saying sorry, but Zayn’s still trying to catch up.

“I think it your jokes need some work.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Harry sighs, leaning back against the truck. “What about the ranch though? You doing okay?

“Why?” Zayn says with beer still in his mouth.

“Paul said you didn’t have experience and I don’t want to push too hard, but there aren’t that many easy things to do around here.” Harry looks at him, from his combat boots and up to his shoulders that aren’t half as muscular as his own. Zayn doesn’t know what he sees. “Unless you want to cook for us?”

Zayn wants to say that it’s Niall who cooks, that it’s the same as if he’d start getting the eggs in the morning when it’s Louis who does that. “I don’t mind digging.” He almost shrugs, but he doesn’t want to feign indifference. Zayn doesn’t mind digging or getting more blisters if Harry wants him to drag more pillars around. He doesn’t mind doing anything that needs to be done.

“Noted.” Harry nods, and they both drink a couple of sips in silence, except for one of the cow bells ringing in the distance.

“Don’t make me paint again though,” Zayn remembers, though technically, Harry didn’t make him do that. He was supposed to hang around Louis and watch him work that day, to get an idea of what it’s like here. Now Zayn’s sure that Harry was going easy on him those first couple of days. Piling hay onto a pickup doesn’t that bad anymore.

“Bad knees?”

Zayn has to move his legs just thinking about it. “I didn’t know if I could walk again.” Painting the front porch fence, top to bottom, kneeling for more than half of it had Zayn wishing he was back in that yard, reading a book at one of the tables or doing laundry in the steamed filled room where he could hardly breathe.

“Louis can be lazy sometimes,” is how Harry reasons it, but it doesn’t sound fair, because Zayn doubts Harry ever gets lazy. He probably wouldn’t know what to do with himself. Zayn gets the feeling Harry’s one of those people that don’t believe in time off.

And since they’re talking now and Harry seems comfortable enough to stay as they are for a couple more minutes, Zayn asks, “How come you’re here alone? I mean, with Louis and Niall? How does this happen?” because Zayn’s thought about asking and now maybe Harry will give him an answer.

“Well,” Harry starts with a sigh. “My parents died, my sister doesn’t want all of this,” he waves a hand at the field in front of them, “so I took it over.”

“Just like that?”

Zayn’s expecting a one short answer when Harry closes his eyes and bites his lips. Zayn’s sure he’s only focusing on the way Harry’s face moves because he’s been deprived until now. “Thought about selling it, but I couldn’t bring myself to let this place go,” Harry admits, quieter than he had been talking before. There must be something else there, Zayn can feel it.

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What about you?” Harry goes on, draining the last of his beer. “The freedom part of it all. Feeling anxious yet?”

Zayn looks down at his hands, at his feet, thinks about the itch there that tells him to run as fast as he can every night when the house is asleep and no one would notice him gone until the morning. “Nah.”

Harry raises his eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe I have thought about making a run for it. But I don’t know…” Maybe it’s them that make him stay, the thought of disappointing even more people than he already has. Zayn doesn’t want to think too hard about it. “I do like this place. I’m not in any hurry.”

“Good. I don’t want to go chasing after you.”

Caught off guard, Zayn actually does laugh at that. He starts shaking his head, wants to tell Harry he’ll leave him a note so he can find him faster when he does run, when there’s someone’s voice that gets their attention.

“Rain’s coming!”

The voice sounds like Niall, a holler from the back of the house echoing around the walls and bouncing off of the grass, drifting all the way to the back of the pickup. Zayn imagines Niall has his hands clasped around his mouth. He doesn’t know if this is how they always get the weather forecast when they’re working in the field.

Zayn looks up and the sky does look muddy, like someone’s been stomping in it, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain any time soon, just like the heat isn’t going to let them breathe.

But Harry’s already hoisting himself up, throwing the bottle in the back of the truck and grabbing his shovel. “Come on, time to pack up.”

“What?”

“You heard Niall, it’s gonna rain,” Harry says without looking at him and maybe that’s just how it’s going to be. If they’re sitting in the sun with cold bottles in their hands, Harry’s going to smile and laugh and look him straight in the eye. Any other time, Zayn isn’t going to exist.

“But…”

“Niall’s never wrong about these things.”

“Um…” Zayn stands there, watching Harry’s back move as he goes to get the other shovel as well and then his chest where his shirt is open, the butterfly inked bellow his chest.

But this happens here. Louis knows where the dog is without seeing for two days. _At Thompson’s_ or _at the bar_ , _keeping Mrs. Walters company._ Zayn never sees more than a flash of fur when whoever Louis names drops Bullet off and it runs straight to the barn. Harry can round up his cattle with a slap on his thigh, that’s what Zayn was told when he asked about the cows. And Niall knows when it’s going to rain. Zayn wonders how long he has to live here to have a way with something too.

“Come on,” Harry says again when he drops the shovels in the back and walks around to the front of the car. “You’re not walking this time.”

“But…”

“Zayn.” Harry stops with his door open, standing there with a look that makes Zayn’s feet move all by themselves. When he gets to his own door, he swears he hears a faint, “Finally,” but he pretends he doesn’t.

Louis and Niall are already huddled on the porch when they get there, pressed together on the swing there with expectant smiles that almost make Zayn nervous.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” Louis says as soon as they’re out of the car.

“We don’t have a cat,” is what Harry says walking up the stairs and sitting down on the bench at the door, sighing like he does when he leans his back against the wall and lets his head hang back.

Zayn still doesn’t know what exactly is happening, so he gives Louis and Niall a nod before he sits down next to Harry. They’re all looking at the horizon, like they see something Zayn doesn’t.

“You don’t want to miss this.”

Zayn looks at Louis with a raised eyebrow. _What? What is it?_

Niall grins at him and says, “It comes at us, the rain,” like it explains anything. _Doesn’t the rain fall the same no matter where you are?_

To his left, Harry leans closer to him, the stench of sweat wafting closer as he does. “On days like these,” he stars quietly, because he must know Zayn doesn’t understand the fascination with the weather. “When it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain, it comes at us like a curtain.”

And it does. After a minute of looking straight at the horizon, Zayn can feel it in the air caressing his cheek, the wetness of it, the sound of water hitting the thirsty dirt from the distance. It comes at them like a curtain.

Just like Niall knew, exactly how Harry explained.

–

There’s the sound of plates clattering on the table and then of utensils, like they’re falling out of the sky when Zayn closes his bedroom door behind himself and makes his way to the kitchen. He can smell food and coffee, Niall’s waffles and Louis’ strong brew that he can practically taste as he rounds the corner.

Zayn keeps his lips tight around his, “Good morning,” because there are four plates again, but Zayn tells himself it’s because Louis is asleep on the table with his hands clasped around his cup. And Zayn can’t say he expected to hear anything besides Niall’s quiet, “Morning,” in return, when Harry looks up and smiles at him with a nod of acknowledgement.

Zayn pulls his chair out and says, “You’re here late,” with a smile of his own that he hopes Harry won’t hold against him.

“I was promised waffles.” Harry looks over at Niall, who promptly dumps the last of the batch into the hot pan.

Zayn hums and settles into his seat. Breakfast has already been the favorite part of his day, but now that Harry sits there and smiles at him between bites of the waffle and strawberries, Zayn can’t help but feel like he’s back at home. Except that now he watches Louis wake up, how every sip and every word Niall drags out of him, he gets more and more alert, his eyes opening, his lips around his second cup of coffee. Zayn used to watch his little sister wake up like that, except she did it with honey toast and hot cocoa.

“Who’s gonna wash the horses?” Harry asks as he leans back in his chair, hand on his stomach.

“Don’t even look at me,” Louis mumbles as Niall says, “I’ll do it,” with the kind of grin on his face that Zayn wouldn’t give for washing two full grown mares.

“I’ll take the barn.”

Zayn watches Harry smile at Louis, a softer curve of his lips than Zayn’s seen on him. He doesn’t know what it means.

“You ready?” Harry asks when Zayn’s still listening to way Niall talks about the horses, Sparkles and Glitter. It takes him a second to realize Harry’s talking to him. He almost forgot about the fence.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn rushes to say before he gulps down the rest of his coffee and stands up. He isn’t sure, but he thinks Harry snorts at him with a smile and a shake of his head. He still doesn’t know Harry, why he has a smile for Louis or a laugh for Niall, but Zayn takes this as a good sign. He’ll take it all as a good sign.

They dig and they drag pillars over the mud. It isn’t as hot, the sun relenting on them, but the air is thick now, and the rain in the ground is coming back up again like it wants to be glued to their skin. Zayn takes his shirt off before they even start working and Harry doesn’t wait long to take his own off either.

They never talk while they work, Harry keeping his lips tight and his back bent, the only sound Zayn hears the little grunts he makes when he kicks the shovel into the ground. He doesn’t mind the quiet, the cow bells or the crickets in the grass, as he keeps dragging pillar after pillar. They’re almost done with the first stretch of them, almost at the edge of the woods, where he’s sure they’re going to stop and continue down towards the house. Any further and Zayn might actually make a run for it, if only to get away from the fence.

“How come we’re making a fence?”

“Hmm?” Harry doesn’t even lift his head.

Zayn holds one end of the pillar up as he stands behind Harry’s back, asking what he’s been wondering for days now. “I mean, you clearly didn’t have one until now.”

Without stopping, Harry says, “Well, I got to keep you busy somehow, don’t I?”

Zayn drops the piece of wood with a gasp, kicking up dust at Harry that barely even reaches his boots, but it makes him turn around with a kick of his own.

“Stop it, I give up,” Zayn laughs, holding his hands up as Harry uses his shovel, which is cheating, he’s sure. “I give up.”

“You better,” Harry laughs back at him. They stand there, looking at the state of their jeans until Harry says, “Break time,” and they collapse in the shade again.

“You like your cows, don’t you?” Zayn asks when he opens another bottle of beer, this one still cold. He takes a sip as Harry narrows his eyes at his boots, clinking the toes together.

“I like all my animals.”

“But you like them the best.”

“What makes you think that?” Harry’s squinting at him then. Zayn knows how his face moves, that he can go from a smile to a frown in less time than it takes for his mood to change, but seeing it on Harry and having it directed at him, from laid back to serious, sends a shiver down his spine.

“You named them…” Zayn says tentatively, looking down in his lap, because the last thing he wants is for Harry to start frowning at him. He’d rather take the passiveness again.

“And?”

“You have a lot of cows and I might not be an expert on this, but I think people don’t name their cattle.” Zayn’s never asked what the cows are for – if it’s only milk or anything else. He knows what the homemade in _homemade_ _chicken soup_ means, but they haven’t had any beef. He can’t picture Harry having the cows for any other reason but because he wants to.

Zayn hears a sigh and he imagines Harry slouches his shoulders as his eyes stay half closed. “We always had them. My mom got the chickens when she took over and I got the horses a few years ago, but the cows have always been here.” Harry looks around the end of the pickup. When he turns around, he’s smiling. “They’ve always been here.”

“Your grandparents had the farm first, right?” Zayn asks, looking at Harry’s lips, wanting to see them curve again.

His eyes are stuck until he hears Harry ask, “You been asking about me?”

Zayn sputters and tries to keep his composure. “Um… maybe? I didn’t meet until after the first week, remember?”

Harry keeps looking at him for a moment before he nods. “I do.”

“So I asked,” Zayn goes on, as if he doesn’t notice Harry staring. “Not that Niall or Louis told me anything.”

“If you want to know anything, you can ask.” Harry puts it out there, like he isn’t afraid of what’s been going through Zayn’s mind for a month now, everything he could’ve thought about but never dared to know. _Where is your sister? Why don’t you wear those sparkly boots more often? Do you sleep through the night or do you have trouble closing your eyes?_

“Right now?”

“Whenever,” Harry heaves as he pulls himself up, dusts off the back of his thighs. He looks at Zayn when he says, “You can help me dig now,” but it doesn’t feel as inviting as it sounds.

–

Zayn never had trouble sleeping. Not when he was a kid, falling asleep on chairs, on the top of tables, his desk in school, Zayn left drool marks wherever he went, one nap at a time. And not when he grew up overnight, going from careless to careful and wanting to sleep with one eye open just in case his bunk buddy decided to get any ideas. Just the thought of keeping himself awake tired him out. After a week, Zayn figured if Mike wanted to do anything to him during the night, he’d just have to figure it out then.

And since Zayn’s moved to the ranch, every night has been the same: dinner, shower and then his legs carrying him to his bed on their own accord, dropping him off on his pillow as he’s already asleep. Loading hay or digging holes doesn’t exhaust just his muscles, it exhausts him whole, from his feet to his head, until Zayn isn’t able to think about getting under the covers instead of on top of them. His mom used to joke it was his superpower.

But Zayn’s been lying in his bed for more than an hour now, having stopped looking over at the clock to count the minutes, with his eyes as wide open as the window, the crickets chirping in his head. The moon is hanging in the middle of the sky, full and round and too bright. Zayn could count the craters if he’d twist his neck to look.

Instead, he sits up, because if he knows one thing, it’s that forcing sleep is useless. Like wanting a river to stop flowing or the seasons to change backwards, so he stands up and rotates his neck, wonders if warming up some milk would do the trick.

On his way to the kitchen, Zayn changes his mind and opens the glass cupboard instead, taking a bottle in one hand and a heavy glass in the other. He sits himself down on the bench outside, pours himself a finger of whiskey and drains it one go.

Not in a million years did Zayn think he’d end up here. He remembers wanting to go to college, get a degree in something useless like art history or philosophy, just so his parents could brag about it to their relatives, _my only son, only boy, graduating from college_. Some nights he’d stay awake picturing it, the pats on his back for getting accepted, wondering if he’d stay home or move to a dorm. Zayn always thought him and Waliyha would end up living together during college somehow.

That was before and it was after. It was before Zayn got caught trying to steal a Chevrolet parked in front of the post office, but it was after he’d broken into enough cars to know that once the alarm goes off, he was supposed to run. He didn’t and he doesn’t know why, Zayn just knows he didn’t. It was before Trisha couldn’t even look at him and after he stopped coming home. He always told himself it was because he outgrew his bunk in the corner.

The bunk he had to sleep on for two years was surprisingly, a perfect fit.

Just as he snorts into his glass, there’s a sound at the door that makes Zayn look up and gasp. He’s clutching at his chest, feeling if his heart is still beating and Harry chuckles. He actually chuckles.

“What are you doing?”

“Dying,” Zayn wheezes, telling himself he’s never going to sleep again as Harry steps closer to the bench and bends down to look at Zayn’s glass. “What?”

Harry clears his throat, but, “What are you doing?” still comes out as a rasp again.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugs, because why else would he be sitting here in the middle of the night, drinking by himself, wishing he could go back in time and never stuff that six-pack into his jacket.

Harry hums and shrugs back at him. It looks like that’s going to be it, because he walks back inside. Zayn almost says a confused, “Good night,” after the door closes, but then Harry’s back on the porch, sitting down next to him with a glass of his own.

Zayn pours him two fingers and refills his own glass. “Did I wake you?” He wasn’t sure Harry even slept in this house. He wouldn’t have known Harry lives here if Louis hadn’t looked at him like he’s crazy when he asked.

“No,” Harry says, dipping his tongue into the drink.

Zayn waits for more of an explanation, but when it doesn’t come, he tips his glass and drains it again. It burns going down his throat, warms up his stomach and settles down in his gut, but it doesn’t make him feel any better, his legs still restless, jumping to the beat of the crickets.

They sit there, humming into the night like they have something to say but don’t know how to put their thoughts into words or say them out loud. They sit there and Zayn refills Harry’s glass when he hands it over, but keeps his own empty, because he’s warm enough now, tentatively touching on the idea of going back to bed now.

He keeps his eyes on the fireflies for a second longer before he turns to face Harry with his mouth open, ready to say something that slips silently past his lips when he sees Harry staring back at him already. Fingers tightening around the glass, Zayn holds Harry’s gaze. Seconds tick by without either of them moving and even Zayn’s legs settles in the silence, the crickets quiet as he runs his tongue over his lip.

And then Zayn swears he feels his heart jump, because Harry follows the movement with his eyes, like he’s tracking the movement, before he’s setting the glass down and leaning in, pressing his own tongue against Zayn’s lip.

His heart jumps again, this time into his throat, but Zayn swallows around it and presses closer to Harry, sighing when he feels hands on his waist, a thumb pressed against his cheek. Harry teases his tongue against Zayn’s lips with a hum that vibrates all along his spine, tingles in his toes like he’s walking on fire.

Stealing another quick kiss, Harry pulls back and presses their foreheads together. Zayn can’t open his eyes and he’s happy he doesn’t, because he wants to see a flash of a smile on Harry’s face, wants him to steal another kiss. Zayn wants to give it to him. But Harry runs the tip of thumb under his eye instead, sighs and barely even whispers, “I’m sorry,” before he’s standing up and walking away, his head down and shoulders slumped.

That night, Zayn doesn’t sleep.


	3. Sometimes you bend

It’s a creeping thing, like a sharp nail edging over the back of his neck, into the short hair there, barely even a touch. It starts somewhere in his stomach, deep and dark, and slithers up towards his chest so slow, Zayn doesn’t even know it’s there. He doesn’t know what to call it, the heat in his throat as he walks over the dry grass crunching under his boots.

The pickup is right where it’s supposed to be, where they finished digging yesterday, with the pillars on the back. Zayn swears the pile is bigger every time he looks at it, even if he drags twenty of them away. When he rounds the back, expecting Harry to be crouching at the back where he couldn’t see him, Zayn isn’t surprised there’s no one there.

Harry wasn’t at breakfast this morning, he wasn’t waiting for Zayn in front of the house, shielding his eyes with his hand and a, “Ready?” aimed at a yawning Zayn. He wasn’t surprised.

He sees the shovels stuck in the ground, a pair of gloves over their handles. It’s Harry’s way of saying pick one, _do your work_ , since he isn’t here to tell him himself. Zayn doesn’t miss the three fresh holes dug up a little further along.

Zayn digs a hole for each pillar he drags over the ground, wanting to get it over it, done and finished, so no one can say he isn’t pulling his part. He doesn’t want to give anyone a reason to say he isn’t trying. Zayn’s just trying his best.

The sun moves as he does, dragging over the sky, an inch for every time he walks to and back from the pickup, panting louder each time. Zayn works until the sun is hanging right over his head and then he stops. Three steps away from another pillar, Zayn stops and without thinking too hard about it, gives up. Throwing the shovel to the ground and shaking the gloves from his hands, he leisurely paces his way back to the house.

Niall looks at him when he walks into the kitchen. He watches Zayn pour and drink a glass of water, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say anything. Zayn gasps with the last sip, puts the glass in the sink and goes towards the back of the house, feeling Niall’s eyes follow his feet.

He takes off his shirt and undoes his jeans before he’s in the bathroom and once he’s there, he throws it all on the floor. It’s almost like he can hear the shower calling for his name, telling him to get under the water as soon as he can and Zayn does nothing but listen to it.

After he’s clean, his skin hot to the touch, Zayn walks across the hallway to his room and throws himself on the bed. But he doesn’t sleep again. He doesn’t feel tired, doesn’t need to close his eyes, he just lays there and tries to shut his mind off to stop the thoughts that ask what’s wrong with him from coming to him. Zayn doesn’t want think about why he is the way he is. _Didn’t you want to be better? Didn’t you say you were going to be good now?_

It was just a kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Zayn and Harry could’ve pretended like it didn’t happen, Zayn would’ve been fine with that, he would’ve. Or would’ve forced himself to be. He heard Harry last night, that barely even spoken apology touching his lips.

But Harry had to make it something by avoiding Zayn. By not showing up at the ass crack of dawn like he always does, he made it a thing that Zayn has to deal with now. He thought Harry was supposed to keep him from fucking up, not entice him.

Twisting and turning, Zayn stays in bed as long as he can. He closes his eyes, shuts the drapes, so that maybe he can pretend to sleep for an hour or two, as soon as that lump in his throat subsides and he can swallow again. He lasts almost half an hour.

“Where’s Harry?” Zayn tries to make it sound casual, but the way he stomps his foot in front of Niall, makes him look less disinterested than he thought he was. “So?” He wants to give Niall enough time to put down the magazine in his hands, to straighten up in his chair. “Where is he?”

“He’s running errands.”

“Errands.”

“Yes. Errands,” Niall deadpans at Zayn’s disbelieving tone. Something is up, he can smell it. “Why?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Zayn shakes his head. He thought he was the only one around here not giving straight answers. “When is he coming back?”

Niall frowns at him. “Why?” he asks again.

“Because…” _We need to talk. I need to talk to him._ “I just need to ask him something.”

“You can ask me.” He folds the magazine, thumps the front legs of his chair back on the floor. “Or Louis.”

Zayn wants to roll his eyes, stomp his foot again – he never did that when he was a kid – throw a tantrum until Harry comes back. But he doesn’t. He can’t let himself. So he shakes his head instead, mumbles, “Forget about it,” and goes back to his room.

He thinks it’s a true testament to how far he’s come since he’s got here that the only other thing he thinks of doing is working. Zayn isn’t exactly sure why, but he puts on a clean shirt and his boots, tugging them on with more noise that he usually does, kicking at the wall only a slightly intentionally. He hears Niall mutter something to him, but he ignores it and walks out of the house.

Maybe working will keep him busy until Harry shows up, keep his mind off of the whiskey he could taste on Harry’s tongue last night. So Zayn picks up the shovel and gets to digging, one hole after the other until he decides to drag the pillars, one after the other. He decidedly doesn’t allow himself to replay Harry’s sighing onto his lips last night.

He actually makes some progress by the time his stomach starts growling and the sun dips down behind the horizon. It’s nothing compared to how much work he did with Harry, building the fence like it was nothing. But it’s something, it’s good enough, and Zayn didn’t think about Harry at all. Apart from his mouth. Not even a wisp of his name.

Zayn huffs as he drops the last pillar of the line, nodding at it, at the job well done that he’s going to do again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that as well. He sighs just as he’s about to turn around to put the gloves back on the shovels.

But as he does, he jumps at the sight of Harry, leaning there against the back of the pick-up. Zayn clutches at his chest, feels for the beating of his heart and keeps his eyes on the blue of Harry’s shirt, as blinding as it is, something pink printed on the chest of it, the material gleaming with the falling sun.

“Stop creeping up on me,” Zayn grunts. He tucks the gloves off his fingers and throws them right past Harry’s head, who doesn’t even flinch. Of course he doesn’t.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you said that already.”

Zayn doesn’t know what he’s doing. Now and in general. _I thought you promised to be better._ He’s turning to walk away, back to the house, take another shower before he eats whatever Niall put aside for him.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Harry says behind him too loudly to just be casually throwing it out there. _You found me_. So Zayn doesn’t give him the satisfaction of walking away from him like he knows he should, like he wants to.

He turns back on his heels and starts stalking towards Harry. At least he straightens up now. “I was yeah.” The wind is in his sails, Zayn’s ready to tell him to forget about last night, to promise to pretend it didn’t happen. The words are in his mouth, at the edge of his lips, right at the tip of his tongue when he comes to a stop in front of Harry and his flashy shirt. He inches his eyes down and sees the flamingos, each on one side of his chest, both with top hats and mustaches and he gets distracted, the words, “We kissed,” slipping out.

Harry keeps his eyes on him. Zayn expected he’d look at the ground, his boots, squint at the falling sun, but he’s looking right at him.

“You kissed me,” Zayn goes on, taking a step forward, wondering what point he’s trying to make. Harry nods, barely moves his head as Zayn says, “You kissed me,” again, hoping it’ll make Harry do something, but it doesn’t. So Zayn stops where he is, the tips of their boots almost touching. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he says loudly, taking a stand, because it doesn’t, not if they don’t want to.

Zayn looks down at the scabby leather of Harry’s boots, thinks about if he’ll ever see the sparkly ones, and when he looks up, all he sees are Harry’s eyes and his lips and then he’s kissing him, grabbing right at the birds on his chest.

Harry steps back with it, but he takes Zayn with him. They both groan when Harry’s back hits the pickup again, but they don’t break away. Before Zayn can think about what he’s doing, he’s pulling Harry closer to him, biting his lip, sucking on the other until he hears Harry moan and swallows it whole.

Then something switches in his head, his hands fall to his sides and he takes a step back, but he does so alone. He watches Harry run a finger over his lip, right where Zayn’s teeth were, blinking up at him, confused but not surprised.

Zayn blinks back at him, says, “See, it’s just a kiss. Nothing to it,” and walks away from him.

It takes a hot shower and the time he lies in bed waiting for the wind to pick up to take the first breath after he walked away from Harry. Or that’s what it feels like, his eyes slipping closed as he turns on his back and heaves a sigh.

 _It doesn’t have to mean anything_. It doesn’t have to, but maybe Zayn wants it to.

–

For the rest of the week, Zayn works alone. He jumps into the kitchen every morning to make himself wake up and he shouts, “Good morning,” to wake up Louis as well, without hesitation, because something tells him that Harry won’t be back yet. He drives to the shop to pick them up some oatmeal and bread on Thursday, flour for Niall to make it himself the next morning.

Zayn’s at the register when his eyes move from Jeffrey’s face to the stacks of cigarettes behind him. He hasn’t smoked in two years, didn’t have anything to exchange for the contraband, but now he has the money Niall gives him, always more than what he’d actually need. So he catches the loose change juggling in his pocket and says, “Give me a pack of Marlboro menthols too,” quietly enough so that he can pretend he isn’t picking up a bad habit again, raising a part of himself from the dead. Zayn thanks Jeffrey, wishes him a good day and speeds back to the house on the main road, his fingers already itching to light up with his first cup of coffee.

It isn’t until Saturday evening, when Zayn’s leaning against the cold fireplace in clean clothes, smelling of Louis’ cologne he got sprayed with as he was putting his boots on that Niall bumps his shoulder and says, “Hang back a bit, Harry said he needed to talk to you.”

“Oh, someone’s in trouble.” Louis’ eyes practically sparkle.

Zayn wants to do something childish, like stick his tongue out at Louis or throw something at his crotch, but the way his heart jumps over a beat makes him stand perfectly still and only snort a little.

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall pats his shoulder. “He didn’t look mad or anything.”

“I’m not worried.” Zayn tries to shake him off, shrugging his shoulder, but he realizes that might come across as rude, so he smiles at Niall when he drops his hand.

“Sounds like you are,” Louis quips from the couch, grinning dishearteningly. “What did you do?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Niall says, beating Zayn to it, though he says it much nicer than Zayn would have. “Come on.” He pulls Louis to his feet and gently ushers him towards the door. “Come to the bar when you’re done.”

Zayn doesn’t how they ended up working for Harry, if Niall couldn’t resist the horses and Louis secretly liked the control Harry had over everything, including him, at this place. Zayn should try bossing him around, see what happens.

He nods and smiles at Niall, presses his nails into his palm as soon as the door closes behind them.

This is getting ridiculous. Zayn just wanted to serve his time and be good, do something good when he came out and was free again. He doesn’t know how he ended up playing tag with Harry.

He goes out of the house as well, chasing some fresh air and another menthol he can light up without feeling guilty every time he inhales a cloud of smoke. As he lights up, he can hear Trisha clunking her tongue at him, shaking her head but not looking at him. Because she can’t look at him, she’s too disappointed to even look at him.

Zayn blows out a puff of smoke just as the door swings wide open and Harry walks out on the porch. He’s wearing the pink shirt again, the one that shines in the sun, silk and smooth, but he has the boots on as well, glittery and bright, like something a child would pick out.

“Hey.”

No use in pretending he isn’t there, Zayn guesses. “Hey.”

“Going out tonight?” Harry asks, casually, making conversation as he walks over and sits down next to Zayn on the bench.

“What gave it away?” Zayn doesn’t bite his tongue fast enough. He takes the last drag of the cigarette, putting it out against his boot. “Yeah, going to the bar.”

He expects Harry to give him a lecture on how to talk to your boss, about gratitude and respect, because it isn’t often Zayn’s sat like this, waiting for the rain to roll in. But Harry just chuckles at him, dimples and everything. Zayn didn’t even know Harry had dimples. But then Harry did stop frowning at him only a couple of weeks or so ago.

“Want a ride?”

Now Zayn frowns at him.

“It’s just a ride.”

“I thought you wanted to talk?” He doesn’t know why he brings it up, digging a hole for himself along the ones in the field. It’s like he wants to be dragged on the ground.

“We can talk in the car,” Harry says, standing up and patting his jeans. “Come on.” Zayn watches him jumps down the three steps, Harry’s hips swaying as he makes his way to the pick-up.

Zayn’s stumped. He isn’t supposed to get near a car, let alone take a ride, even less from the person who’s supposed to make sure Zayn keeps being good, keeps away from anything that would get him back into trouble. But then he thinks about how Harry said he wouldn’t tell Paul, like it would be their little secret, hushed on this ranch. And for some reason, Zayn stands up and pats down his jeans as well, because he believes him. _Believe nothing. Trust no one. Not a single word._ But Zayn does.

So he jumps down the stairs and runs the rest of the way to where Harry’s already started the engine, leaning one arm out of the window and waiting for Zayn to get a move on.

“Why?” Zayn breathes out as he closes the door with a thump, “Why do you want to get me in a car so badly?”

Harry shifts the car into drive and shrugs. “Don’t know.” The car jumps to life and Zayn’s hands tighten into fists. This will be his natural reaction to being in a car from now on. “Maybe I think it’ll be fun.”

“Breaking my parole is fun for you?” He tries to relax, unclench his hands, but he ends up twisting his fingers together instead as the car jumps on the gravel road.

“Or I think Paul is being stupid,” Harry says, looking over at Zayn with a grin that makes him snort.

“I think it was a judge that set the parameters of my parole, actually, but sure, Paul is stupid.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Harry says around another smile right as they stop in front of the main road. He looks left and right, and he’s driving again, except he makes the wrong turn.

“What are you doing? The bar’s that way.”

“We’re taking a detour.” Harry shrugs so nonchalantly, doesn’t even look at Zayn as he steps on the gas to propel them down the road faster, like they’re in a race Zayn doesn’t know about, that Zayn’s fingers actually relax this time, untwisting.

He moves his arm on the edge of the open window, tips it over and lets it hang against the metal of the door. The wind swoops past the hairs on his knuckles, drifting into the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. It makes him want to close his eyes.

“Don’t you want to know why?” Harry asks after they’ve been quiet for ten seconds, still driving in the opposite direction of where they’re supposed to be going.

“Not particularly, no.” There’s not much Zayn can do about it. He figures the less of a fight he puts up against Harry, the less he’ll be the blame for whatever he has in mind. If Harry wants to take him somewhere, who is Zayn to tell him no.

Zayn looks over at him, watches how he’s gripping the wheel with one hand while he pinches his bottom lip with the other, concentrated on the road even if it’s straight and they’ve past the two potholes in the next ten miles already. There are rings on his fingers, almost all of them, heavy and thick, silver with a red stone, a rose, a simple band on his middle finger. Zayn’s noticed Harry works with them, puts on gloves over the rings, holds a spoon with them on at breakfast. He wonders if he keeps them on in the shower as well.

“We’re going to the lake,” Harry says as he slows down and switches the indicator on for absolutely no one, making the sharp right turn that Zayn found the first week he was here.

“The lake?” Zayn looks past Harry’s head through the window and sure enough, the water glistens in the moonlight, green and dark. “Why?”

“Thought you didn’t want to know,” Harry hums at him, smiles when Zayn crosses his arms and shakes his head. He doesn’t.

They park right in front of one of the smaller docks, a short step away from the water. The path along the water is just big enough for the pickup, the lake on one side and trees on the other, the woods looming all around the banks. When he steps out of the car, Zayn feels a chill on his skin, colder than it is on the ranch.

“What are you laughing about?” Harry asks him as he comes to stand next to him in front of the pick-up.

“There are easier ways to hide a body.” Zayn shrugs. Might as well be honest.

Harry gasps at him, puts a hand on his chest. “I didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at him, because this would be a perfect opportunity. The people he’s met here probably wouldn’t remember his name if anyone comes asking, Harry could easily persuade Louis and Niall that Zayn just packed his bags and left, and he doesn’t think Paul would more than blink as he threw his file in the trash.

“Then why did you?” Zayn steps away from the car, crosses his arms again and waits expectantly for an answer. But as he does, Harry smirks at him and starts unbuttoning his shirt without a word. “Harry?”

“You need to relax,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans next. Zayn doesn’t know if he should look away. He doesn’t. “Come on.”

“Come where?” He spreads his arms wide, looks around them.

Standing in his boxers and nothing else, Harry puts his hands on his hips and says, “For a swim,” before he’s running towards the dock and jumping into the water with a splash. Zayn doesn’t fail to notice he didn’t take his rings off.

“I’m not much of a swimmer!” He feels ridiculous, trailing after Harry, but much slower, stepping onto the creaking wood with measured steps. “Harry!”

“You don’t have to swim,” Harry comes up to his left. His hair is pressed to his forehead, droplets sticking to him like they were glue. “Just get it.”

“I… I don’t…”

“The water will do you good.” Harry perches himself on the dock, leaning on his forearms. He’s looking up at Zayn, no frown, but not smiling either. He’s just looking with his head cocked to the side, just waiting.

It might be the look on his face or it might be because the water does look good, a refreshing contrast to the hot shower he took not even an hour ago. Zayn sighs, feigning exasperation to not give Harry any satisfaction as he turns around and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Zayn doesn’t jump in an arc like Harry did. He sits down on the last plank and lowers his feet into the water. It’s cold, but it’s pleasant, enough so that he doesn’t waste his time before he shifts his hips and grabs onto the dock to sink into it in one breath.

“It’s nice, right?”

Zayn grumbles at him, one hand still on the dock as his legs work to keep him upright. He’s never been a good swimmer, never wanted to take his sisters to the pool in the summer. He wishes he had now.

“You gonna let go of that, or…?”

“Stop pushing me,” Zayn snips back at Harry, but it only makes him laugh. Zayn doesn’t know when they went from frowning to smiling and now to laughing. He’s getting whiplash.

Harry’s still chuckling as he swims away from him in broad breast strokes. He probably comes here often. It looks like he’s going to the center of the lake, swimming away from the safety of the dock while Zayn clings to it when he sees Harry dive underwater, before he’s swimming back.

He’s looking at Zayn as he’s coming closer, making his way over the wave-less lake with ease, going underwater again just as Zayn’s hand slips from the wood and he’s swimming too, meeting Harry half way.

“You know, I’m really not much of a swimmer,” he says around a mouthful of water, his arms barely keeping him afloat. Zayn doesn’t know when it happened, but Harry’s behind him now, kicking right at his feet.

“That’s okay,” Harry says and he doesn’t sound as breathless as Zayn already feels. Or maybe he does, Zayn decides when Harry settles right behind him. He’s close enough that Zayn could touch him if he wanted to, but Harry beats him to it, wrapping a hand around his waist as he says, “Relax,” like Zayn could even if he wanted to now.

“What’re you–?”

“Lean back.” Harry’s lips are right next to his ear, his chest pressing against his back faintly until Zayn leans his head backwards and lets himself float up, his feet almost peeking out from under the water.

He can feel the waves Harry makes with his arm, stroking through the water to keep them up, keep them breathing, all of Zayn’s weight resting on his chest, wrapped around with his arm over his chest. They float for a second before Harry’s asking, “Better?” with a hushed voice. It’s probably because Zayn’s closed his eyes, his head lulling on Harry’s shoulder, drifting away with the waves.

Zayn thinks he nods, but he’s not sure, humming something softy that sounds like a yes. But just as he licks over his lips to force a sound out of his throat, Harry says, “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” just like Zayn has been for the past four days. _It doesn’t have to mean anything._

Zayn doesn’t have to wonder what Harry means by it. He opens his eyes and moves his arms, waving them through the water until he’s upright again and he can turn around, Harry’s hand still on his waist, keeping him close. Slipping his arms around Harry’s neck while their legs kick in turn, Zayn thinks _it doesn’t have to mean anything_ again, before he’s pressing his lips to Harry’s.  

They’ve both been waiting for it, Zayn can taste it on their tongues, even if he didn’t realize, if he doubts Harry did either, because as soon as he bites Harry’s lip, just like he did last time, Harry moans again and Zayn eats it up, wants more.

He feels like a dead weight but he can’t help himself – Zayn slips one hand down Harry’s chest and grazes his thumb over his nipple just as he licks past Harry’s lips. It doesn’t feel like his legs are working anymore and they might not be, because they float and then sink, their faces in the water as Harry tries to catch his breath, lick over Zayn’s teeth.

“You’re gonna–” Harry pants, his lips against Zayn. “We’re gonna drown.”

“I know.” Zayn tries nodding his head. He can feel how they aren’t stable anymore, just drifting upwards by pure luck. But their lips don’t ease up, they just hold each other tighter, bite harder.

“No really,” Harry starts to say, but gulps at the water instead. “God,” he spits it out.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s get out.”

Zayn swims as fast as he can back towards the dock, but they drifted away from it and he doesn’t trust himself enough to go underwater like Harry does, so he ends up climbing the rackety latter when Harry’s already pulling a towel from the back of the pickup.

“Someone’s prepared.”

“Wishful thinking,” Harry shrugs. He pats it down his chest and around his legs, Zayn noticing the muscles contracting in his thighs not for the first time, before he gives it over to Zayn. It’s even colder now than it was when they parked, his skin already covered in goosebumps when they climb back into their seats.

“You do this a lot?” Zayn looks over at Harry as he asks, so he doesn’t miss how his eyes widen or how he coughs into his fist. “I meant come for a swim,” he explains, because Zayn wasn’t asking about kissing in the lake. Though now he thinks he should.

“Oh,” Harry says around a relieved laugh. “When I can.”

Zayn hums and leans back in the seat. They keep the windows closed at they drive, cool enough now to not feel the heat lurking in the air. Harry drives slower now, like he was in a rush before. Maybe he was afraid Zayn would jump out of the pick-up midway, making a run for it – either from him or from all of it. He keeps pinching his bottom lip, his hand at him mouth every time Zayn looks over.

Zayn’s eyes keep drifting from the road to Harry’s open shirt, because he thinks that now he’s allowed to look at his chest and the tattoos fitted over tight muscles. Maybe this is it, kisses where no one can see them and lingering looks Harry probably feels burning on his skin. Zayn doesn’t know if the thought bothers him or not.  

“I can drop you off at the bar,” Harry says when they’re halfway to the house. But Zayn stretches heavy legs and feels his spine strain against the movement.

“Nah, it’s okay.”

He hears Harry mumble a quick, “Okay,” and they both settle into their seats again.

It’s already late when Harry parks right at the steps of the house. Zayn jumps out before him and starts making his way inside the house, thinking of how good this could be – having someone to touch and touch him back when his skin starts burning and he doesn’t want to be alone. But it could be messy, because Harry doesn’t look like the type to confront Zayn if and when it goes wrong. Because it’s going to go wrong. It’s just a matter of time.

They’re in the living room when Zayn turns around to say an awkward goodnight, but right as he’s about to turn, Harry puts a hand on his waist to stop him.

There’s a faint breath on the side of his neck before Harry kisses him there, then at the back of his neck and Zayn can’t do more than tip his head forwards, hoping Harry bites at the top of the fantail there, just a little, just to make blood rush to his head.

Zayn moves his arm back and wraps it around Harry awkwardly, but he manages to start walking them towards his room while Harry doesn’t let up, his fingers unbuttoning Zayn’s shirt, roaming over his chest by the time Zayn’s standing in front of his bed, wondering if they’re even gonna make it on top of it.

Harry turns him around and kisses him again, a line from his throat to his lips, right at the tip of his chin that makes Zayn groan, because he hasn’t been touched, hasn’t been kissed all over in two years. He hasn’t had foreign fingers undoing the zipper of his jeans in even longer.

Zayn’s gripping the sides of Harry’s shirt when he gets his boxers off and throws them on the floor, still standing behind him so Zayn has something to lean against when he wraps his hand around Zayn’s dick, dry and tight. Harry must hear him wince, because he brings his palm up to Zayn’s mouth. He licks it, just like that, with a swipe of his tongue as his knees shake with the anticipation of it.

Harry keeps biting his neck, sucking on his skin as he keeps pulling him off in slow measured strokes, Zayn not quite sure if he’s pushing into it or backing away from his hand. But he keeps his feet where they are, lets himself have this, closes his eyes and just enjoys it for what it is. He leans all of his weight against Harry, lets him hold him like that as he hisses every time Harry thumbs over his slit quickly, just so he can rasp, “Like that?” into Zayn’s ear.

When Harry starts pushing his hips against Zayn’s ass, he guesses he isn’t the only one meant to be getting something out of this, so he pushes Harry’s hand away and turns around. Dropping to his knees, Zayn starts working on Harry’s jeans while he slips his shirt off his shoulders. He swears it glitters on the floor.

Harry twists his fingers into Zayn’s hair, pressing against Zayn’s scalp just enough to let him know he’s a little impatient with it, needs Zayn to do something. Desperate to be touched, Zayn fits his hand around the base of Harry’s cock and guides it to his lips, barely licks over the tip just to see if Harry’s as responsive as Zayn thinks he is.

As Harry’s knees almost buckle, he licks a fat stripe over the length of him, reveling in the feeling of someone in his mouth like this, hard and heavy, mewling every time Zayn hollows his cheeks. He’s missed this, the euphoria rushing to his head, the nerves making his heart jump, conscious of everything he’s doing but doing it anyway, playing it up even more just because Zayn likes what it makes Harry do. He keeps his fingers tight in Zayn’s hair, pushing his hips forward every time Zayn loosens the grip he has on him, like he’s afraid it’ll be over too soon.

Zayn keeps his lips on Harry, dragging them over the top of his thigh, licking down to where his fingers are splayed against his skin, and just as he runs his tongue lower to lick over his balls while he jerks him off, Harry grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him up. He turns Zayn around and presses against his spine to get him kneeling on the bed. Zayn swears he sees white as soon as Harry’s hands are on his hips.

It’s fast and rough, Zayn on his hands and knees, and Harry right behind him, pressed against the back of his thighs, first with his mouth on him, spreading him open with his hands, licking over his rim with a broad swipe of his tongue and then stretching him with spit slick fingers until Zayn rolls his eyes and makes a noise he doesn’t think he’s ever made before. It’s still slow at first, a pace Zayn can match with his own hips as Harry lines himself up and inches into him. He eases his hips forward, so Zayn can revel in the burn of it, of being full and tight and pressed into the mattress with a hand in the middle of his shoulders.

But then Zayn whimpers something like, “Harder,” closer to, “Faster,” maybe both at the same time, because he wants to feel it tomorrow while he’s sitting at the table opposite Harry, looking at him and telling him to do it again, to do it even better next time – to really make him feel it.

Harry bites his neck, leaves a mark on his shoulder and keeps his hand over it then, moving Zayn into him every time he pushes his hips forward, grinding as close to Zayn as he can manage. It starts somewhere in his chest, down in his gut, the feeling that glistens and shines and burns as it moves down down down until it’s right there, in that spot that makes him whine and grip the sheets until his knuckles are white every time Harry presses his hips into it.

Harry groans something above him, right next to his ear and with a tight hand around Zayn, until his arms tremble and a guttural moan is pulled out of his chest, makes Zayn come over his hand, hot and fast, like it’s all he’s ever wanted as he falls on top of Zayn in a panting mess.

They try to catch their breathing, but Zayn can’t quite think straight and Harry’s still hard next to him, so he makes himself move through the fog to get his hand on Harry. He makes it quick, his hand tight and a little rough, but Harry’s closing his eyes, murmuring, “Just like that,” running a hand over his chest to pinch at his own nipple as Zayn rolls on his side to kiss him, right as he’s about to come, so he can catch his moan with his lips as Harry spills over his hand and onto his stomach.

Zayn keeps his eyes closed as long as he can, trying to chase that feeling, that glistening thing ebbing in his gut, slowly dissipating as soon as it reaches the tips of his fingers and toes. But when he hears Harry’s breaths even, he peeks at him with one eye, mimicking the lazy smile on his face.

There’s some kind of etiquette, Zayn’s sure, he’s probably supposed to stay motionless for at least another five minutes, but his skin is sweaty and sticky, and he thinks he’s lying on top of his own come. He stretches his back, feels for any aches Harry might have put there with his hand.

“You can take a shower,” Harry murmurs next to him. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet.

Zayn’s legs drag lazily over the carpet as he makes his way to the door, stopping as soon as he gets to the hallways when he hears Harry say, “Save some hot water for me.”

As the water falls over his back, Zayn keeps grinning at the image of Harry lying in his bed with that stupid smirk, throwing Zayn a wink alongside it, not even bothering to feel modest about being stretched naked on top of the sheets.

Zayn keeps grinning until he’s back in his bedroom, his bed stripped of the dirty sheets and a pile of folded clean ones waiting there for him. His clothes have been picked up off the floor and so have Harry’s, except they aren’t right there next to Zayn’s, hanging over the back of the chair.

Harry’s gone. And so are his sparkly boots.

–

It’s the approaching steps that wake Zayn. They’re loud and angsty, start somewhere upstairs but it isn’t until they’re right in front of his room that he hears them. The last two steps: thumps, not clicks of heels. He lets Louis have this one, lying motionless underneath the covers. Zayn didn’t even put clothes on from last night. He slept in just his t-shirt, pulled on in a hasty huff as he threw just the sheet over the bed and wrapped a blanket around himself. His jeans and boxers left on the chair, draped there so every time Zayn opened his eyes during the night they were the first thing he saw, right where Harry left them. Louis knocks loudly, raps his knuckles against his door twice before he’s opening them with, “Good morning!” that resonates in Zayn’s room.

Zayn groans, his eyes open, staring at the wall. He shifts and hums, “Morning.”

“You’re awake.” There’s an uncomfortable tilt to Louis’ voice. A tilt Zayn doesn’t want to deal with. “What happened with you last night?” Zayn wants to cover his head with the blanket clutched in his hands and pretend like he isn’t there, but he isn’t five years old anymore, hiding from his monsters won’t work, he can’t call his dad to hold his hand.

“Didn’t feel good,” he mumbles into the pillow. He can try to hide.

“Oh.” He knows Louis is leaning against the door, his arms crossed, eyebrows raised, because Zayn wouldn’t believe himself either. It doesn’t sound like he’s even trying to avoid telling the truth this time.  “But you still went out with Harry?”

Zayn wants to close his eyes and fall back asleep. Instead, he lifts himself up and turns around faster than he has any right to this early in the morning. “Did he–?”

“Right before he left,” Louis saves him from asking. “Said you two went for a walk, talked some things out.”

“So you weren’t–?”

“I meant what happened after.” Louis nods his head. And then as Zayn runs a hand over his face, hot and red, blush warming his chest in a tinge of embarrassment, Louis skips his eyes over him. He trails it over the patched up blanket, his bare feet sticking out at the end, the clothes on the chair, one of his boots, not even untied, standing up alone on the floor. The other probably somewhere under the bed.

Louis smirks. “If I pull that blanket away?” He takes a step forward just as Zayn grips it tighter.

“You wouldn’t.”

“No,” he huffs a breath. “I wouldn’t.”

Zayn’s ready to get mocked, picked on like he was in elementary, but Louis just shakes his head. Zayn almost turns away from the familiar disappointment it emanates. “Breakfast will be ready in ten.”

“It’s a Sunday,” Zayn says after him.

But Louis ignores him, saying, “And you better be wearing clothes!” as he’s walking away.

He doesn’t know if he’s more relieved or surprised. No jokes, no ridicule, no nothing. Maybe Zayn’s a little worried.

–

He gets to the kitchen in three minutes. After ignoring the stray clothes, he grabs everything fresh from his closet and walks to the bathroom, in just his t-shirt, rumpled from sleep. While brushing his teeth, Zayn wonders if he should shave anytime soon. He wipes away the toothpaste from his face and rubs his fingers against his jaw, looking at himself in the mirror.

Harry pressed his thumb into the corner of his mouth last night, licked along his bottom lip as he ran his fingertip across Zayn’s cheek to rub at the hinge of his jaw, right where the brisk hair starts. Licking his own lips against the memory, Zayn dresses himself and throws the towel on the floor before he makes his way to the kitchen. He’s going to put off shaving for a couple more days.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself when he rounds the corner and three pairs of tired eyes meet his, looking at him in three different ways. Zayn says a quiet, “Good morning,” and reaches for the cup Louis hands him with a nod. He ignores the smirk Louis gives him.

Niall smiles at him over his shoulder as the eggs sizzle in the pan he’s holding, shaking it from left to right. Zayn’s stomach grumbles with the smell as he sits down and looks up at Harry just because he’s sitting right there. He used to frown at Zayn, look away as soon as Zayn turned towards him, which granted, didn’t happen that often. But it was the burning his eyes left of the side of his face that Zayn couldn’t resist. At some point, he started to look at Zayn, not necessarily with a bright smile, but he used to look and say good morning and eventually talk as they ate.

But now Niall loads their plates and as they all start eating, and Harry is yet to look up at him. They all keep to their plates, noses in their food. It’s Louis that says, “You sure it’s going to rain?” like he needs a distraction from the silence.

Niall nods. “Yeah, late afternoon, maybe sooner.”

Louis tsks. “You’re losing your touch.”

Harry chuckles and Niall gasps. “I’m not a weather station.”

“You’re getting old.” Louis pushes his plate away, smeared with yolk and sauce. Zayn thinks he catches a wink.

“Fine,” Niall huffs. “Five o’clock. Or four, no sooner.”

“Is that a bet?”

“Are you scared?” Niall leans forward, grinning at Louis. Zayn wants to point out he has crumbs on his chin, decorating his skin like little Christmas bulbs, but he feels someone nudge at his ankle, so he looks up.

It’s Harry. He kicks Zayn’s bare ankle again, even though they’re looking right at each other and then he shrugs and smiles, like they always play footsie underneath the table at breakfast. Zayn wants to remind him they don’t. They don’t smile at each other for no reason or tangle their bare feet together either. So he doesn’t know why he lets Harry do it now.

He leans back in his chair, waiting for what’s going to happen next, but Harry goes on eating, piling fried egg-whites onto his fork while he keeps Zayn’s ankle locked between his.

“So,” Harry interrupts Louis’ and Niall’s staring contest. “You two might as well deal with the hay.” He points at them with his dirty fork. There are moments, like this one, when Harry sounds all business, talking about his ranch and dealing out assignments. It suits him as much as it doesn’t. “We’ll do some fence work.”

“Okay, how is that fair?”

“Yes, Louis? Anything to add?” Harry looks at him with his eyebrows raised, almost like he wants Louis to give him a reason for a fight. Zayn moves his foot, runs it along Harry’s calf just to see what happens. It makes Harry sigh and his eyes slip shut by just that much, sinking into his chair a little. That’s good to know.

“I mean,” Louis shrugs, cowering a little now that he has Harry’s attention. Zayn knows how that feels. “I just meant it would go faster if we all worked on keeping the hay dry. That’s all.”

“We need to finish the fence,” Harry tone shifts from demanding to placating, soft and reasonable. “If the clouds roll in sooner, we’ll come help you.”

“That’s doesn’t even–” Louis starts up again, but cuts himself off as soon as Harry moves his chair back, standing up and looking at Zayn instead.

“Go get ready,” he orders with a thumb pointing to Zayn’s room.

Zayn doesn’t know what to do. He’s showered, he’s dressed – he’s ready. But he doesn’t want to question Harry, doesn’t want to have Louis’ look on his own face when Harry grows tired of him as, so he gets up and does as he’s told. Two years ago, he wouldn’t have gone so easily. Zayn would’ve stood behind Louis and cracked his knuckles, said something like, “Or what?” just to get Harry really going. Maybe Harry would look at the ground like Trisha used to, or maybe he’d leave the room like his dad, fed up and tired, just needing it to be over. The best thing that happened to them was Zayn getting caught. That wasn’t hard to figure out.

Now, Zayn goes willingly, but slowly, trying to catch the words he thinks Harry doesn’t want him to hear, but he only gets, “You know full well why–” before he’s in front of his door.

–

“Ready?”

Zayn waited an extra five minutes after he found the boot. It was under the desk, not the bed. He untied them, laced them each loop at a time, and pulled them on like he was moving in slow motion, imagining thick jelly all around him, what it would be like with handcuffs on. If he’d have red rings around his wrists again.

“I was ready before breakfast,” Zayn quips. This time it isn’t to see what Harry does, because he expected to see his eyes widen, if not his lips to part. As much as Zayn’s keeping a distance, walking around with his arms spread wide to keep everything at least those few feet away from himself, he doesn’t appreciate being sent to his room. Doing as he’s told it might have been punched into his skull for his own good. Liking it is another subject.

“What?”

“If you don’t want me to hear you lecture Louis, you can say that.” Zayn doesn’t stop to see if Harry’s following him when he steps onto the cut grass, walking towards the edge of the field. And he’s surprised to see he is, not getting in his pickup to drive over the distance to get to the laid out pillars.

“Well, I’m sorry, I just–”

“You literally sent me to my room,” Zayn throws over his shoulder before Harry can finish. The thing about avoiding the truth all the time is you get good at spotting other people doing it too. “I’m not your kid.”

For a moment, he thinks Harry’s stopped following him, until he hears him grit out, “I know,” past his teeth. Harry takes a deep breath and quickens his pace to catch up with him. He puts a hand on Zayn’s back, tugging at his t-shirt a little. “Stop, just stop moving for a second.”

His heart is beating faster, his fingers itching to be pressed into a fist. Zayn takes a breath of his own as he stands there, waiting expectantly.

“I’m sorry, okay,” Harry starts quietly, shifting where he’s standing, looking back at the house before he goes on. “I needed to talk to Louis and I knew he wouldn’t appreciate you being there, so…”

“So?”

“Next time I’ll just tell you to leave,” Harry quips this time, clearly running thin on his patience. But it’s all Zayn wanted to hear.

“Good.” He nods at him.

“That’s it? No bad mood?”

“I wasn’t–”

“Oh please,” Harry laughs as he moves his hand from his back to his hip, pressing his fingers into Zayn’s skin as he says, “I could _smell_ it on you,” and leans in to peck his lips, quick as anything. “Come on, we have work to do.”

Harry’s hand slips off his hip, just the remnant phantom feeling of where it was, where Zayn could feel those rings against his hipbone left as he stands there. He almost raises his hand to his lips, to see if there’s a trace of Harry there too, maybe in the corner of his mouth that he feels pulling upwards as he watches Harry walk away from him.

Without skipping another beat, Zayn runs to catch up to him. And as they walk, Harry puts his hand on his back again, pinching his side so Zayn slaps at his shoulder. But he doesn’t move away.

Zayn doesn’t know what he believes anymore, but he wants to believe this.

–

Zayn was ten years old when his dad first sat him down for a talk. He remembers wringing his hands, swinging his legs back and forth, his heels bumping against the bottom of their old couch. It smelled like old people. When Zayn stayed up late, watching monster truck shows and his face was pressed up into the cushions that had the same brown flowery pattern the wallpaper in their hallway did, he always thought it smelled like old people and something sweet. The couch was a gift from Trisha’s auntie. They got a new one and the Malik’s got their old one, the one with a tear on the left armrest. His mom used to swear every other Sunday how she’s gonna fix it, saw it all up so it’ll be like brand new. She’s probably still saying it, between folding laundry and drying the dishes his dad washes by hand. If they haven’t gotten a new couch, one that doesn’t smell like old people, Zayn would bet she still swears she’ll patch it all up, make it brand new, like nothing ever happened.

He was expecting a lecture. That’s what Yaser said, “We need to talk,” as soon as he hung up his coat and put his boots into the little cupboard that whined every time you just looked at it. He patted a cushion, “Come here,” and Zayn did as he was told. He still listened back then.

Yaser started talking, something about how grown up Zayn was, about how strong he is, the other man of the family, but Zayn didn’t listen. He kept playing with his fingernails, stabbing a nail at a cuticle to get it loose, to bite it off. It was a Saturday and Zayn was only ten, but Yaser kept saying how he’s practically an adult already, so big he should start coming to the gym with him.

Zayn caught that and looked up at him, barely making eye contact through his lashes, because he didn’t want to start going to the gym – Zayn wanted new trainers, a puppy, he wanted to go out and smoke another cigarette, he wanted to see if he could do it without coughing this time.

But then Yaser moved closer, sat right next to him on their old couch and put a hand on Zayn’s knee, squeezed a little. “Son,” he hesitated. His dad never hesitated, he came out and said it, strong so that you heard, so that Zayn would listen. When Zayn thinks of his dad, he doesn’t remember this, this Saturday morning. “Grandpa Walter, he… you know he’s been sick.”

Zayn was ten years old when Yaser sat him down to tell him that his grandpa fell asleep, but didn’t wake up in the morning, that he was old and sick, that it was his time. But Zayn didn’t listen, because he’s heard it before from his mom about auntie Maryam, how she was sick too, how she didn’t wake up either. Zayn didn’t want to listen, so before Yaser could tell him, Zayn stood and ran; not to his room, to his little space in the corner. He ran until he couldn’t, until he was sure he didn’t have to hear Yaser finish, because Zayn didn’t want to listen anymore, not to a single word.

–

Niall packs them sandwiches today. Sometimes he cuts up fruit and brings an entire bowl down to the field so they can eat in the shade, chase the sweet taste with beer. Harry leaves him at the fence when the sun hangs right above their heads, to get the pickup, to get the pillars and the lunch and beer, because they don’t just work through the day like they used to at first. They sit on the dirt and the grass, the small dark square on the ground cooler than the rest, even if the sun is supposed to disappear in less than two hours. They enjoy it while they can.

Zayn hums around a bite of his sandwich. “So have you names your chickens as well?”

“Don’t be stupid Zayn, chickens don’t have names.”

There’s a blush creeping up Harry’s neck that makes Zayn snort with a laugh. “You totally have, haven’t you? You’ve named all your animals.”

“They’re part of the family.” Harry shrugs, casually, not so much as trying to be shameful. “So they get names.”

“Why Glitter and Sparkles?” Zayn asks around a bite, chuckling as he does, because Harry shakes his head and groans, as if he’s just been waiting for Zayn to bring it up.

“Well,” Harry clears his throat. “Sparkles is half white, so she kind of does sparkle in the sun, if you look at her right.”

“Okay.” Zayn can’t help his smile. He’s already wondering if the cows are named anything alike too, Rainbow and Dazzle, to fit with the theme. “And Glitter?” he asks. It’s obvious Harry thought he wasn’t going to push it further because he groans again, more exasperated that Zayn thought he would be.

Harry takes a swig from his bottle as he squints up at the sun. And Zayn knows he’s just trying to avoid answering the question, but then there’s a drop of beer left on the top of his lip that makes Zayn wonder if he tastes like beer now. He keeps his eyes on it, so he misses the smirk on Harry’s face, just follows the drop with his eyes as Harry stands up all of a sudden, brings Zayn to his feet too so he can kiss him to show him. Zayn licks at his lips, at the back of his teeth, presses their mouths closer together just to make sure that Harry tastes more like strawberries. It’s a wonder how pliant Harry gets when they kiss, following his every move, breathing in when Zayn breaths out. Always shuddering when Zayn touches his tongue to Harry’s.

“Wanna go for a swim tonight?” Harry asks into the kiss, panting just enough for Zayn to give him room to breathe.

“I’m not–” Zayn stutters when Harry kisses his jaw and runs his tongue to his earlobe. He swats at his chest, “Stop it. I’m not big on swimming.”

“You did great last time.”

Zayn watches him walk out of his hands with a casual shrug, but he doesn’t miss the wider step Harry has to take to adjust himself. They shouldn’t get themselves riled up when they have more work to do. It’s probably counterproductive.

“Yeah well, once was enough.”

“You could still come with.” Zayn knows what Harry’s going to say before he even says it. “Watch me swim.”

“Isn’t it going to rain?”

“More reason to get in the water.”

Zayn bites his lip. He could sit on the dock, legs in the water while Harry splashes around him, lays back on the water and floats in circles, the moonlight catching on his wet skin. Adjusting the zipper on his jeans, Zayn grabs the shovel lying at his feet and pretends like he doesn’t see the smirk on Harry’s face.

“Not tonight.”

“Alright,” Harry says around a muffled laugh. Zayn doesn’t know why he got himself into this. He should call Paul, ask for a transfer before he gets to a point he won’t be able to come back from. “Next time then.” Harry winks at him.

Zayn groans and pretends that didn’t happen either.

Later that night, Zayn closes the window for the first time since he got used to the wind wrapping around his skin again. He missed the breeze, the feeling of weather on his cheeks, his eyelids as he lies in bed, dressed this time, as he listens to the rain knocking on his window. He wants to let it in, invite it for a sleepover if it wouldn’t make him wet and cold. A flash splits the sky and a booming shatter follows, shaking Zayn’s lungs as he tries to breathe himself to sleep.

Harry told them they won’t have to start work as early tomorrow since their Sunday wasn’t spent lying around and listening to Niall strum notes on his guitar. Louis hollered right at the table, in the middle of dinner with food in his mouth. Niall practically jumped in his chair.

Zayn just sat back with the news, pressing his foot against Harry’s calf, saying his quiet _thank fucking god_ under the table until Harry chuckled loudly and shook his head. Louis and Niall excused themselves first, rubbing their plates with a new found vigor before they ran to their rooms to get dressed.

“I’m gonna have a look around, check on things,” Harry said, but he didn’t make a move to leave.

“Well, I’m definitely going to bed.” Because even if Niall asked him to join, even pouting when Zayn groaned, it’s sleep. Zayn won’t pick anything over sleep.

So as soon as Niall and Louis ran right into the rain, and Harry got up, leaned over the table and said a quick goodnight against Zayn’s lips, he showered, fast and efficient, like he wasn’t used to anymore, just to get the job done, and trailed droplets all the way to his bed. Collapsing onto the pillow after he put on a t-shirt and boxers, Zayn thought he’d fall asleep in the next second.

But he’s still listening to the rain, to the thunder that claps every now and then. He’s tried to close his eyes, let the weather lull his mind into some dream he won’t remember by the time he wakes up, but he keeps floating, stays awake thinking about Safaa, how bad she used to be during storms. She always needed someone’s hand to hold, worried about lighting striking her and taking her away, grabbing down for her from the center of the sky.

Zayn used to be her hand. Telling her a story, making one up about a princess, a young girl with eyes as blue as the sky who the sun loved so much, it kept following her around everywhere she went, so lighting couldn’t come down to take her away – he used to calm her down as soon as she heard the first thrash of thunder. Zayn was the one.

He doesn’t know who held her hand after he left or if she still needs one to hold, if her breath gets stuck in her throat every time the weather forecasts rain. Zayn doesn’t know and he wants to.

Another lightning strikes somewhere outside, but Zayn rolls away from it, lying on his side and turning his back to it. He’s just trying to fall asleep, just close his eyes and let go. It’s not happening tonight though, because as soon as he starts to drift, there’s another knock, this time at his door, louder than the rain.

He frowns, his eyes still closed and lifts himself on one elbow, half expecting both Niall and Louis to come tumbling through the door drunk, loud and clumsy. But there’s another knock before he’s able to say anything, the door handle creaking as Harry opens the door and hangs on it.

He smiles at Zayn when he sees him, asks, “Did I wake you?” Zayn can’t help his frown, watching Harry close the door behind, carefully tiptoeing to his bed and standing there.

“Can’t sleep,” Zayn says. He doesn’t know what Harry’s thinking, but Zayn still moves closer to the wall, lifting the side of his blanket before Harry even has a chance to ask.

First his belt and his jeans, Harry takes off his clothes until he’s squeezing next to Zayn on the single bed in just his boxers. As soon as their skin touches, Zayn winces. “Why are you so cold?” But then he looks up at Harry’s hair and sees it’s dripping wet. “You actually went for a swim.” Zayn doesn’t even ask. He knows.

“I said I would.” Harry tugs the blanket over his shoulders, laying his head next to Zayn’s. He slips his knee along Zayn’s thighs, hunches it over his legs as he settles down. “It was a bit boring by myself though.”

“Who do you usually go swimming with then?”

Harry doesn’t answer him though and Zayn realizes he doesn’t care as soon as Harry kisses him. It’s lazy, languid and slow, their tongues barely touching with it. Zayn’s heart doesn’t start thrumming like it usually does. It’s like Harry’s fingers pressing into his hip ground him now, instead of push him on, make him roll on his back so Harry can slot their legs together. There isn’t a way they could both lay comfortably on this bed, but they can try. Harry hovers above him, raised on his hands so he has to dip his head down to kiss Zayn again. He just pecks him though, one of twice, before he’s moving again, leaning over on his side so one of his hands is free.

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks. He braces himself when Harry trails a finger over his chest, over his nipple, tugging it a little. “Harry…” he warns, but he doesn’t mean it.

Zayn helps him when he tugs at his boxers, raises his hips so they can slips them down to his thighs, barely even getting his cock out. It’s ridiculous, crammed together on the small bed like they’re fifteen, sneaking into each other’s room during the night so they don’t get caught. It makes Zayn snicker and kiss Harry again.

“You sleep with your socks on?” Harry asks just as he pulls his own boxers down, holding himself in his hand.

“Shut up, my feet get cold.”

Harry apologizes with another kiss, like he didn’t mean anything by it, just ask, just a question, like he was genuinely wondering because he doesn’t know how Zayn sleeps. Harry doesn’t know everything about him, which Zayn forgets sometimes. He bites Harry’s bottom lip to say sorry too, tugs on it just because he can.

It takes some more maneuvering around the mattress to get Harry to hold them both in his hand, slick with spit, tight and smooth. They pant into each other’s mouths, Zayn raising his hips a little, needing more friction as he watches Harry’s eyes slip closed at one point, his mouth hanging open as he groans and jerks his hand faster.

All it takes for Harry to come is a spur of the moment finger Zayn traces over his back and lower down to the cleft of his ass. Harry’s eyes open wide just as Zayn presses the tip of his dry finger right against his rim, feeling the muscle there contract before Harry’s hand falters and he’s coming over Zayn’s stomach, hot and panting.

Zayn can’t help his smirk as he kisses Harry’s cheek, but he can’t help his hand either, snaking between them so he can get some release as well. Useless and lazy, Harry barely lifts his hips, but he slots their mouths together in a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue and, “You gonna come?” like Zayn isn’t trembling beneath him.

As soon as Harry wraps his hand around Zayn again, his fingers over Zayn’s, heat tugs at his insides and he comes with a moan pressed into Harry’s shoulder, teeth biting all the skin he can reach.

“That was…” Zayn starts, but Harry interrupts him with a peck on his lips and a loud smack that follow.

“Brilliant. That was brilliant.” He falls on to his side, barricading Zayn against the wall. They barely manage to pull their boxers back up with how they’re positioned. And then they’re barely able to both lie comfortably, Harry on his back and Zayn half on top of him, his leg over Harry’s thighs, because he excepted Harry to leave. He didn’t think he’d get this too.

But he guesses he does, and as the rain still hasn’t let up, he’s glad he does. Sighing, Zayn says, “I used to be afraid of storms,” and doesn’t think too much or too hard about it.

“That why you couldn’t sleep?” Harry asks in a whisper, trailing his fingers over Zayn’s back. It makes him settle into him even more.

“No, it isn’t that.” Now that he’s started, Zayn might just finish it too. “My little sister,” he starts, talking away from Harry. “She used to have trouble breathing when a storm rolled around. And I just… I was just wondering how she’s doing now.”

“What’s her name?”

Another sigh and Zayn says, “Safaa,” just barely. “She must be all grown up now. I hate to think about her as a teenager, you know? She probably wouldn’t even like me anymore.”

“Nah,” Harry kisses the top of his head. “She probably misses you. My, um– Me and my sister are close now, but we didn’t always get along, you know, but now we do. She’s great.”

“Where is she?” Zayn asks, looking up to see Harry smile at the ceiling.

“Married with children in San Francisco of all places.”

“Oh.”

“She needed to get away, so,” Zayn feels him shrug. “Guess she did.”

Zayn thinks about how he’s feel if Safaa wanted to move half way across the country to get away from him. He couldn’t blame her, not really.

“I used to be afraid of horses,” Harry says at the ceiling again. Zayn keeps tracing his fingers over the butterfly on his stomach as Harry just breathes under him, his ear pressed close enough to his heart to hear it pick up its pace. “Still are.”

“Even Glitter and Sparkles?”

“Even them. They’re not calm like cows. I think horses can really see you in a way other animals can’t.”

“How come you have them, then?”

Harry mumbles, “I was persuaded,” and laughs to himself, snorts even. Zayn almost asks by who when he hears a little snore coming past Harry’s lips.

Zayn didn’t know it was exactly what he needed to fall asleep. Maybe Harry couldn’t sleep either, maybe that’s why he crawled into Zayn’s bed. He doesn’t think about it much before he falls asleep, lying half on top of Harry and half on the bed.

When he wakes up, Harry’s gone. Zayn doesn’t know if it’s because Harry gets up earlier than he does, even if it is barely six in the morning or if it’s because he doesn’t want to be there in the mornings, like he wants to avoid kissing Zayn’s morning breath mouth or hearing the rasp that creeps its way into his voice during the night. Zayn pretends like he knows it’s the former, because he doesn’t want to know what it means if the other makes his stomach sink. Zayn doesn’t want to know anything this early in the morning. He rolls onto his other side and falls back asleep.

–

The next two days, Harry’s nowhere to be seen. Louis tells him to work on the fence, call for help if he needs anything. It’s just regular work where Zayn keeps to himself and laughs at the stories Niall tells during dinner. He starts taking breaks, bringing beer with him in the morning in the bag Niall packs for him with lunch, because if Harry doesn’t want one, it doesn’t mean Zayn shouldn’t have one. Zayn works and laughs and sleeps. He takes long hot showers and jerks himself off before he has a chance to ask where Harry is.

And then on the third day, right before he’s about to round the corner to get the list Niall made of what he needs to buy at the store, he hears, “What are you doing?”

It’s Louis and for once, it sounds like he’s keeping his voice down.

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry answers him, snips more like, short like he’s trying to end the line of questions about to come.

“Does Zayn know that?”

This time, Harry doesn’t answer. Zayn can picture him staring, either down at the table or right at Louis, keeping his mouth closed and his eyebrows furrowed, standing his ground.

“You can’t act like I don’t know you well enough to fucking see it on your face.” Louis’ voice is harsh, cutting. “You either have to talk to him or you have to stop, right now.”

“We’re not,” Harry annunciates, “Doing anything.”

“The walls are pretty thin, you know?”

“Louis…”

“Don’t you think you should tell him?” Zayn frowns at Louis’ tone, something like surprise or more intense, actual shock. “Zayn has the right to know. It sounds like he’s earned it to me.”

A chair squeaks, drags on the floor and Zayn almost jumps from behind the wall yelling, “Good morning,” like he usually does. He almost plasters a smile on his face and acts like he hasn’t just heard any of it. But he doesn’t. He detours the kitchen and goes straight for the front door.

Zayn wishes he hadn’t heard. He doesn’t want to hear anything else.

–

It’s almost half an hour before Harry joins him at the fence. He barely says anything to Zayn as picks up his shovel and starts digging. It goes like that until Zayn heaves a sigh some time later, the sun halfway up the sky and slinks the gloves of his hands. He goes to sit in the shadow of the pickup. He doesn’t invite Harry, but he doesn’t have to.

They don’t talk like they usually do, Zayn doesn’t even know what to say. _It’s nothing serious, you and me,_ but he can’t, because Harry’s slept in his bed and he knows about Safaa, knows her name, knows she’s afraid of storms like Zayn used to be. It meant nothing, that first and second kiss, but even if he can’t say it, Zayn knows it means something now. So he keeps quiet and eats his sandwich in peace.

Harry takes a breath a couple of times, like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t either. When they finish eating, they go back to work until the sun goes down and Niall calls them to dinner.

–

 Zayn’s sitting on the porch, breathing in the cold air for once, still fresh with the rain from a few days ago when Harry joins him. He opens the front door just enough to squeeze past it and makes his way to the bench, sitting down next to Zayn without a word. Zayn doesn’t even raise his head to see if it’s him. He knows. It’s easy to tell if it’s Harry now. He just knows.

They sit there, Zayn smoking, Harry nearly leaning against him as he taps his toes against the floor, _tap tap tap_.

Taking a pull of his cigarette, the menthol easing the burning of his throat, Zayn asks, “What is this? What are we doing?” on an exhale, because he knows Harry’s been waiting for this. He’s waited for Zayn to ask, so he didn’t have to be the one to bring it up.

Harry shrugs as, “We’re having fun. We’re just having fun, right?” rolls off his tongue, all casual and toneless.

“Fun?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing, right?” Harry leans forward onto his knees, turns his head to look at Zayn.

He tries to see what Harry’s eyes are telling him, what answer he wants to hear from him, but there’s nothing there. Zayn can’t see a single thing.“Right.”

He puts his cigarette out and stands up. Harry doesn’t say anything back. Just sits there and looks up at him. Zayn opens the door wide open and waits, because he can tell now, that Harry is about to follow him. And he’s right. Harry gets up and walks right up to him, wraps a hand behind the back of his neck and keeps Zayn still as he leans in.

Zayn finds Harry’s other hand and pulls on it to lead him through to the house, to his room, because this is fun and they do it because they want to, because it’s fun. _It doesn’t have to mean anything_. Zayn almost says it out loud when Harry has him bent in half, pressing his thighs into his chest, repeating, “Zayn, Zayn, Zayn,” as he fucks him fast and slow, tight and loose. Harry holds him like he’s about to float away.

Zayn falls asleep pressed against Harry’s back, slotted between him and the wall, and it’s the first time he knows, Harry won’t be there when he wakes up.

–

The next day, after Harry didn’t show up for breakfast again, Zayn spots him walking across the field right as he’s having his lunch. He sips his beer and keeps an eye on him, on the black shirt that floats around Harry’s torso, see-through the more closer Harry is. Zayn watches Harry practically stomp his feet as he walks.

“Paul said to stay away from you.”

If it had been anything, it wouldn’t make Zayn stop the way he does. Anything else and Zayn would’ve taken another sip of his beer and shrugged, maybe look at the ground. But his eyes are on Harry’s, waiting, needing to hear the rest.

“Before you got here, when he called to see if I still had a spot open. Paul told me to stay away from you.”

Zayn still has his eyes on him, but he stands up now. He almost propels himself away, but there’s something telling him to take a step forward instead, ask, “Why would Paul do that?” because he might be getting better, he might be on his way to being the best fucking version of himself, but he’s not there yet, so of course he asks and waits there, like he knew he would. Best guess, Harry knew he would too.

“Because he knows me,” Harry chuckles dryly. Zayn doesn’t find it funny either. “Paul knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Zayn’s hands clench into fists. “I’m not a dessert,” he grits through his teeth. He doesn’t know if he’s more offended or genuinely confused why Harry is telling him this.

“I know.”

“And you shouldn’t let other people tell you what to do.” Zayn shakes his, but it’s not at Harry or the situation they got themselves in – Zayn’s inability to say no and Harry’s weak resolve. It’s not even at the fact they both know how this is going to play out. It’s because before he turns around to walk away, they look at each other and almost smile.

It’s because they both know Zayn’s never going to be good enough to listen to his own words.

–

And then that night, Zayn talks Louis into going to the Corner Bar for a beer, which ends in them doing shots of tequila, but Louis doesn’t call him out on it. He doesn’t mention what day of the week it is or how they definitely shouldn’t be drinking, because they both have work tomorrow. He doesn’t tell Zayn to pace himself or that tequila isn’t going to make him feel better. He doesn’t talk about anything Zayn doesn’t talk about first. Louis doesn’t so much as breathe Harry’s name all night. First it’s just one shot, but then it’s a row of five and the next thing they know, they’re stumbling into the house, shushing each other drunkenly.

“What is this?” Harry asks. He looks like he’s been waiting for them, sitting on the couch. He doesn’t have the TV on or a book in his lap. Just a lamp is turned on next to him. He looks annoyed, Zayn thinks.

“Let me just…” Louis mumbles and points at the stairs. Zayn loses all semblance of support when Louis dislodges himself from him and leaves. He mumbles something else under his breath, but Zayn doesn’t hear him, so it can’t be important.

“I asked you a question.”

Zayn blinks. And then he also loses all sense of reading a situation right. “Harry,” he breathes out with a smile on his face and stumbles awkwardly towards the couch. Zayn sighs when he falls down on the cushions, pressing himself right into Harry’s side, because as soon as he’s there, Harry wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him even closer. “Harry,” Zayn breathes again.

“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t sound as content or as tired as Zayn does, but that might just be the tequila making the inside of his head a bit blurry. Harry’s warm though, and comfortable. Harry’s always been the right combination of soft and hard, sharp edges with smooth lines, hot and cold, there and not. He’s always warm though. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Mmm, I’m okay here.”

Harry chuckles, “Up you go,” and he doesn’t let Zayn have his way. He never does.

Zayn isn’t exactly carried to his room, but it’s a close call. Harry hoists his arm around his shoulders so that Zayn can lean his weight on him and if Zayn does say so himself, he barely stumbles on the way to his bedroom, but it probably has less to do with his capability than it does Harry’s strength. But they manage to walk in a straight line right up to Zayn’s bed – unmade but not messy – where his pillow calls his name.

He falls face first on top of his blanket and he’d be asleep in the next second if his boots weren’t being pulled straight off his feet with the laces still tied tightly.

“You gotta help me out a little, okay Zayn?”

“Hmm.”

“Zayn.”

Harry doesn’t know what he does to him, that’s the thing that circles around Zayn’s head as he squeezes his hands under his crotch to unbutton his pants. There’s no way Harry knows or he wouldn’t call his name so freely, so often or in _that_ tone of voice – the one where it goes straight to his head.

Zayn struggles for a second, but then Harry must see he managed because he starts pulling his jeans down, gripping the fabric at his ankles. It makes Zayn slide down the bed a little, which in turn makes him laugh, because this wasn’t ever supposed to happen. Not this, not any of it.

Harry Styles is taking Zayn’s clothes off in his bed, and Zayn won’t even remember tomorrow, when morning comes back around. It makes Zayn want to cry, but the laugh bubbling in his chest won’t die down, won’t burst, and the more Zayn tries to stifle it at least, the more Harry’s shushing him like Louis did not that long ago.

“You’re gonna pay for this tomorrow,” Harry whispers above him once he takes Zayn’s jeans off, but Zayn just raises his hips a little, putting his weight on his cheek.

“I can pay for it now,” he drawls, slurring his words as he moves his hips from side to side just in case Harry didn’t catch it, but he knows Harry heard him, because it earns him a sharp slap on the back of his thigh.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

“No you don’t.” Even if Zayn has his eyes closed and his face in the pillow, and there’s no way he could see what Harry’s doing, he knows he’s shaking his head. Zayn knows he looks disappointed. He’d bet good money on it. “Get some sleep, alright?”

Zayn hums his agreement. He really should get some sleep. Zayn should sleep and forget this night ever happened. And he could do that – take a lighter and burn today’s memories as easy as that, clean his slate, start over. From scratch, from nothing, like he’s had to do before. But he doesn’t think he will. Zayn’s trying to do better, he’s trying to be good, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make mistakes. He can try as hard as can, but he’ll still fuck up on every other corner – tiger and its stripes and all that.

When he hears Harry’s footsteps leaving his bedside, Zayn turns on his side and opens his eyes. His room is dark and it’s cold, his mouth is dry and he’s tired, but Zayn still manages to say, “Stay,” as clearly as if he hasn’t been drinking all night. Maybe he sobered up when he realized Harry was going to leave him again.

Harry stops in his tracks, his foot dangling awkwardly in the air in front of him and Zayn’s sure that’s the only response he’s going to get. He won’t hear why it’s a bad idea, why Harry can’t do what he’s asking him, but Zayn’s prepared for it: the lingering silence before the inevitable, when Harry just keeps on walking, keeps on leaving Zayn.

But maybe tonight’s different, because Harry puts his foot down and doesn’t leave. Zayn hears him take a deep breath and he can see how his fingers twitch at his sides, and if you ask Zayn, he’d tell you he saw the exact moment Harry decided that tonight was going to be different.

He watches Harry’s back as he stands there, how the muscles underneath his shirt ripple as he raises his arms to take it off. His belt buckle rings in Zayn’s room like a bell when Harry undoes it.

Zayn still repeats those words to himself every day. Even this drunk, even while he tipped back shot after shot, he still mumbled them under his breath, because he won’t forget them. He won’t let himself.

Believe nothing, trust no one. _Not a single word_.

He’s made mistakes and he’s going to keep on making them, but maybe eventually, down the line, he’s learn something too.

That’s why when Harry turns and walks to his bed, sits on the edge of the mattress first, before he lies down next to Zayn and kisses him softly, like he’s saying ‘get some sleep’ again, but silently now, doing everything without speaking a single word, Zayn sighs and inches towards Harry’s warmth until he has his arm wrapped around his waist.

Zayn sighs because he has nothing to believe in, no reason to trust Harry’s words when he doesn’t say them. Zayn’s thankful for it, because at least he can go to sleep without lying to himself.

Now he just has to remember it when he wakes up tomorrow.

–

Zayn stops counting the days after that. He doesn’t make a new line on the wall every time he pulls Harry into his bedroom, doesn’t mark it up when Harry knocks on his door to find Zayn awake because he was waiting for him.

It becomes monotonous, but not. Because they work together, eat together, a couple of times they even shower together, Zayn braced on his hands against the tiles more often than not, letting Harry hold him steady as he presses close to his back, fucking into him as Zayn begs him to touch him. It’s either that, or Harry disappears for days a time. Once he’s gone for a week and right as Zayn asks where he is, Louis shrugging, saying he has better things to do than work all day every day, Harry’s back with a smile on his face and a kiss for Zayn.

Louis doesn’t say anything, just gives him looks, these intense stares that unsettle Zayn. Niall comes to sit with him outside one night when Harry’s gone. He tries talking to him, says, “What are thinking?” and then, “He’ll be back tomorrow,” when Zayn just shrugs, curving around the subject altogether.

And then one morning, when Zayn’s standing on the porch, waiting for Harry to get his boots on, a car turns onto the long driveway, kicking up dust as it comes closer and closer until it stops right in front of Zayn. It’s an old Volvo, something Zayn would make quick work of if he saw it two years ago. The woman driving flitters her fingers at him and Zayn raises a hand back at her, confused at the familiarity of her face.

He watches her, stands there on the porch and waits for her to get out of the car, but the passenger’s door opens instead and tiny feet land on the gravel with a _thump_ that Zayn feels in his knees.

The girl in pigtails and a checkered dress, cowboy boots two sized too big, yells out a long, “Bye!” before she’s running towards Zayn, laughing as the boots start slipping off.

She comes to stand right in front of him, hands on her hips, her missing front tooth showing. “And who are you?” she asks, her tapping boot practically demanding an answer.

“Um…” Zayn stutters. He looks behind him, but there’s no one there. The woman’s already back on the main road, driving away before she even told Zayn what to do. It’s just him and the girl. He kneels in front of her and gives her his hand. That always made Safaa laugh. “I’m Zayn.”

She takes it, shaking it she says, “I’m Maya. Maya Styles.” But she doesn’t giggle or laugh. She keeps her eyes on Zayn’s, watches as his face pales and his chest heaves with a single stuck breath.

Just then, the door swings open, slamming against the house as someone comes to stand behind Zayn, looming over him as he keeps looking at the girl, seeing it all over her face. It isn’t the brown curls or her hazel eyes, but there’s something about that face Zayn knows. It’s like he’s looking at someone he’s met before.

“Maya? What are you doing here?”

Maya squeals and runs at Harry’s knees, wrapping her short arms around them, barely so. “Daddy, look, I’m a cowboy!”

“I can see that, yeah,” Harry bends down to pick her up. Zayn’s still crouching. “Where’s mommy? Why did she drop you off?”

“I’m a cowboy just like you!” She squeals back at him, giggling as she pats Harry’s face with her hands, like she’s trying to make him smile. It isn’t working.

Harry shifts her from one hip to the other. It doesn’t look like he’s struggling to hold her, nothing like how Zayn’s arms used to shake like twigs on water if he had Safaa in his arms. Harry looks solid, safe – he wouldn’t drop Maya for anything in the world. It’s written on his face.

“And what a pretty cowboy you are.” Harry seems to relax with her in his arms. He bops her nose and kisses her cheek, each one twice, and tells her to find her uncles. Maya giggles and screams as she runs into the house, her arms flailing in the air, her boots thumping on the floor.

“She’s…”

“Your daughter,” Zayn’s nodding as he stands up. He thinks he’s breathing again.

“Maya.”

“She said.”

“Look…”

“No, I get it,” Zayn cuts him off. He has to shake his head to make sure, but he thinks he gets it. Harry wanted to keep Maya close and safe and probably locked inside his house where he can see her at all times until she’s thirty years old. He gets it. But he doesn’t get the part where he didn’t even know Harry has a daughter. Not meeting her is okay, it’s reasonable. Even if Zayn doesn’t know if he has a right to ask, he wants to know why he didn’t get to know.

Not giving away anything makes it easy to spot it on other people. Zayn’s always been good at that, finding liars by just the smell of their breath. He didn’t think he’d ever miss something as big as this.

“It’s just…” Harry stars again, scratching at his neck as he turns around to look at the house.

“You just didn’t want me to know about her,” Zayn finishes for him.

“No, no,” Harry shakes his head, stepping closer to Zayn. He almost reaches out for him, but Zayn’s happy he doesn’t. “That’s not it. I mean, maybe?”

“It’s fine, really.” _This doesn’t mean anything at all, remember, I told you._

“It is?” Harry asks, hopeful.

“Not wanting an ex-con to know about your daughter is reasonable, Harry, I _get_ it.” Harry smiles at him a little, probably saying thanks, probably happy that Zayn understands where he’s coming from. Now Harry needs to know where Zayn’s coming from too. “But not wanting your daughter to meet _me?_ I don’t get that.” Harry’s smile slips. “I don’t just work for you. I sleep in your bed. I shower with you in the morning and go to the lake with you to watch you swim.”

“Zayn…”

“It’s your decision.” Zayn takes a step away from Harry’s hand. He needs to get far away. “You and your… whatever her mom is to you. I just– It would’ve been good to know.”

Harry disappears for days at a time. He doesn’t sleep in the house, doesn’t eat breakfast, leaves in the afternoon just about the time school finishes now that Zayn can put two and two together. He’s there for Maya, raising her with the woman in the car. Maybe they’re together, happily married but living apart because they wanted to keep Maya closer to her school, but Harry couldn’t leave his goddamn cows behind. Maybe Zayn’s been fucking a married man all along and neither Niall nor Louis said anything about it. Not to him at least. But Zayn doesn’t know that. He might be wrong. The point is _he doesn’t know_.

He was so worried about not giving anything away, he forgot to pay attention to everything around him. _Sparkles and Glitter_. Maya’s horses.

Zayn should’ve stayed away. He should’ve kept his head down and not said a word. _Not a single word_.

There’s a crash from inside the house, something glass shattering on the floor and then a screech, piercing and high, something only a scared child could make. Harry’s running towards it before Zayn can even blink, yelling out, “Maya!” as he does.

Zayn takes a step forward, another quick one to follow behind, but then he stops. He stops close enough to see Maya go towards the stairs with a pout, slamming her little feet on the steps, _thump thump thump_ like kids do when they’re sent to their rooms. _Does she have her own room?_

Zayn’s room doesn’t make sense, not with the faded pink curtains and the box of colored markers he found in the desk drawers. It didn’t make sense. Now it’s crystal.

He steps inside just enough to grab for his helmet and hear Louis say, “It was an accident, calm down.” Harry says something back, something quick and sharp, probably shutting Louis up as he cleans up whatever mess they made. Zayn puts his helmet on, knocking on the side of it and slipping down the plastic shield over his eyes. He spots Niall bending down to step out of the chicken coop, his basket full of eggs, a feather stuck to his jeans. Zayn mounts his bike and turns the key, revving it to life.

He hears something, maybe Niall, maybe it’s Louis, fighting back, giving Harry a piece of his mind. Zayn doesn’t _hear_ it though. All he hears is the gravel beneath his tire and the first few notes of _Life is a Highway_.

Before he knows it, he’s back on the road, stuck with that song again, finally free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, it didn't take me 7 months to write this.  
> Just an epilogue is left now. It'll be up in a few days.


	4. Sometimes you mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around, here's a short epilogue to tie everything up.

The last time Yaser sat him down on their couch, the one that smells like old people, strawberry candy and something stale, Zayn didn’t wring his hands and his knees stayed perfectly still if slightly parted. Trisha didn’t say anything as she sat at their kitchen table, her head angled towards the ground, eyes staring blankly at the carpet. She didn’t say anything then.

He almost expected her to comment on the holes in his t-shirt – around the collar and the hemline, sleeves cut off one night when he came home late, trying to remember where they kept the spoons. Two minutes later, Zayn was smiling at himself in the bathroom mirror, a little high, a little too jumpy.

But he was calm sitting on that couch, with his knees apart and his torn up t-shirt, he felt cool. Zayn wanted to feel cool.

Yaser cleared his throat and said, “Son,” and without hesitation, he went on. Zayn tried to not listen, to not pay attention, but they he said, “Either you change or you go.” Zayn heard that part.

He looked over at Trisha, her eyes still cast down, away from Zayn. And he looked at his dad, right at him. Strong eyebrows, fat cheeks, sharp jaw he could trace by just moving a finger to his own face. Yaser didn’t look at him like a parent, like the person who raised Zayn with the guidance of his strong voice. He didn’t look like the man Zayn sat with at breakfast, watching his little sister pretend as if he read the newspaper too.

Yaser looked like a pleading man, extending the very last branch he had to his only son, offering help on his open palm that Zayn used to hold when a storm came rolling around and his breathing was too fast, his heart in his ears.

But Zayn wasn’t the son he raised. He was the guy who stuffed six-packs into his jacket, trainers into his pants, gum and cigarettes into his pockets. The person who hotwired a car on a bet, just to prove that he could and liked the feeling – the high, the flashing colors behind his eyes as he gripped the steering wheel as he sped away from his friends. And Zayn didn’t stop, because once he started. he couldn’t leave it at one car, couldn’t leave it alone, stray from that feeling too long. So he did it again and then again, and then a dozen times afterwards as well.

Slipping the wire inside through the door, right by the window was memorized into his fingertips by the fifth time. Zayn always felt bad when the door wasn’t even locked. He usually found another one if they took that step away from him. He sat on the leather, on the plush, on the spilled-on stubbed-at seats and gripped the steering wheel, like he was racing, going a hundred miles an hour down the street. It was always old cars, the older the looser the screws on the steering column, the easier to hotwire.

After his fifth, Zayn didn’t even have to think about. Open the column, find the wires. One bundle always red. The other blue and yellow. Get the red, pull it out, find the battery wire and get to work. Zayn used his nails the first time, or what he had of them. It was mindless, almost tedious but he didn’t want to have it any other way. No screwdriver into the key hole, no jumpstarting it the old way – just Zayn and the spark and the rev of the engine, the holler he couldn’t keep to himself when he pulled off the driveway, out of the parking lot, onto the street.

But his thirteenth, that’s when Zayn glitches. He was in the car, ignoring the pine swaying above his head when he heard it. It wasn’t the sound of the spark or the Chevy coming to life. It was Safaa’s laugh, boisterous as ever, carrying across the street like a bubble of joy that made his fingers lock and his chest to heave.

Zayn looked up and saw them, Yaser and Safaa, walking down the street hand in hand, out of the movies, like they did on Thursdays when Zayn still lived at home, when he was still invited to join.

And as he sat there, his hands on the steering wheel, he saw Yaser look back at him. Zayn saw him see him and he watched blankly as Yaser reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone with one hand, holding Safaa close with the other.

Less than five minutes later, there was a flash of red and blue bouncing off of the buildings around him, but Zayn kept still. He doesn’t know why he didn’t run, didn’t finish the job and drive away as soon as they were there, but he didn’t. He stayed still until Yaser did, between the post office and the movie theatre. But as soon as Yaser turned and pulled on Safaa’s hand, Zayn moved as fast as he could, sparking the wires, slamming on the gas and driving away from it all for the last time.

Yaser sat him down the day before, but Zayn didn’t listen. He didn’t want to believe it was his last chance. Even back then, he didn’t trust anyone, believe nothing. _Not a single word_.

–

It’s unsettling being back here, like an outer body experience if Zayn thought he was capable of something like that. His bike rattles on the streets he knows so well, the ones he isn’t supposed to be driving, the ones he never thought he would see again. He pasts the post office, the movie theater and then two blocks down he goes by the grocery store on the corner as well, turning left until the reaches the house with barely any yard, just a small square patch of grass in the front.

It’s just as unsettling walk up the single step and then another to get to the front door. Zayn didn’t look back when he left, didn’t so much as turn to keep the memory of it somewhere close. Nothing. The last time he was here, he didn’t even look back. And it’s a good thing he didn’t, that he didn’t have something else haunting his thoughts, telling him they were all better off without him there to ruin it for them.

He hasn’t been here in two years and he feels that, the laps in time, like it’s gone missing, cut away from the line of time. Bringing his hand up, Zayn lets it hang in the air before he raps his knuckles against it. The door rattles like it always did.

It was a matter of luck, who would open the door to see him standing there like a ghost that keeps haunting their house. And Zayn isn’t entirely sure how he feels to see his mom standing in front of him, her eyes expectant until she looks at his face and they close for a second, as if just the sight of him is too much to take.

She wouldn’t look at him, not on his last night in this house as Yaser tried his best to make Zayn see what he was doing, to them and himself. And she didn’t look at him that day in court either, Zayn begging her to, _please look at me_ , just to see her eyes, _please_. She almost can’t bring herself to do it now, but as Yaser comes to stand behind here, always so tall and strong, she sighs at the floor and looks up, right at him, right through him.

“I’m sorry.” Zayn didn’t come here to beg for forgiveness, to make them understand why he did what he did, because he still doesn’t know himself. He didn’t come here for anything really, just wanted to see them and apologize, for what that’s even worth. “I’m sorry for everything,” he says, hoping they see it that way too.

Trisha takes a tentative step forward, Yaser still right behind here, and puts her hand on Zayn’s shoulder. Just like that, his legs aren’t as strong and he hiccups a breath, as if a storm is coming and he needs someone to hold him. Trisha tightens her hold and says, “Come on, sunshine,” leading him inside the house he never thought he’d see again.

It’s the tear in the left armrest that puts him at ease, makes him feel like not much has changed, like he hasn’t missed anything at all. He presses his finger into it, feels the old foam crack under pressure and takes a breath as his parents sit on the couch as well, as far away as they can.

“I got a job,” Zayn says, because it’s a good place to start. It’s better than lifting his shirt and showing his mom how it’s still in one piece, _See? No holes_. Yaser hums while Trisha just keeps her eyes on him. “I’m helping on a ranch down in Cloverville, the town right by the lake?” He wants to tell them all about it, how he helps, does the grocery shopping before most of the town is even awake. “It’s… It’s good, a solid job.”

“That’s…” Yaser says, hesitating, his voice not as strong as it should be. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“I have my own room too.” He knows his eyes shine when he says it, but Zayn doesn’t care. It makes Trisha smile, just by that much. “Right now we’re building a fence for the cattle, me and Harry, this massive thing all around a field.”

“Who’s Harry?”

Zayn’s finger twitches in the foam at Trisha’s question. She would be the one to ask that.

“He’s the owner, he’s… He’s great. Has a daughter, she’s around four, five years old.” It’s like there’s a static in the air as they all think the same thing: _Right around Safaa’s age when I stopped coming home for dinner._

“And they give you enough to eat?” His mom makes sure to ask the important questions while Yaser finally leans back on the couch, resting his hands on his stomach. Zayn tries to sit further back as well.

“Oh, yeah, Niall cooks for us. Breakfast and dinner, even packs a lunch for out on the field,” Zayn explains, saying anything they’d want to hear, telling her anything she wants to know.

Trisha nods while he talks, says, “Because you need to eat if you’re working all day.”

Zayn feels a stutter in his chest as he breathes out, “Yeah mom, I know, I do.”

She asks about his room, his bed, if the mattress is firm, “Us Maliks need a firm bed,” but as soon he can bring himself to, his tongue heavy on his mouth with the words, he asks, “How is she?” Because there hasn’t been a sign of Safaa in the house.

“Oh you know,” Trisha laughs quietly, the smile almost reaching her eyes. “She has her friends, her school. We think she has a boy as well.” She rubs her elbow into Yaser’s side.

“Don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye on it,” he says and this time he sounds exactly like Zayn remembers it.

“Maybe…” Zayn can’t keep his eyes open as he waits for Trisha to finish the thought. He huffs a breath and dips his head down, just waiting for it, practically begging her to say it. “Maybe if you come around again, one day, when you come back for another visit, maybe she should see you.”

He thinks he cries, but he isn’t sure, the words ringing in his head as he says his, “Yeah,” wet and quiet.

When Zayn looks up again, Yaser is standing in front of him, offering him a hand that Zayn takes. He’s pulled up to his feet, wrapped around arms and cocooned in his father’s warmth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, hopes they hear him, that they believe him, because he means it this time. Zayn hopes it’s good enough.

–

He doesn’t necessarily feel lighter, but Zayn does feel freer, as if this is actually when his sentence ends, not those months ago in May. It feels different though, the air not as lemony, not so much a peach-orange as a deep green this time, something rich and enticing, something that keeps his hand tight on the gas as he passes the scarecrows, flying over the road.

Driving past cornfields and singing that stupid song again – he’s the one to blame for it this time though – Zayn remembers what Harry told him one night when they were driving the pick-up over the field to get back to the house. The cows don’t like the sound, too antsy and nervous for an engine revving so close to them. Zayn remembers it as soon as he sees the first head, and then another on his right. He takes his hand off the gas, puts his bike in neutral and glides past them without a sound.

He drives until he sees it, right there, at the edge of town, the first house you see, the one Zayn couldn’t miss even if he tried. When he gets to the end of the gravel path, he circles his back tire, kicking up dust.

Zayn takes his helmet off and sees Louis’ already there, hands on his hips, waiting for him to take a step forward. “Welcome back.”

“Mhm.” Zayn walks past him with a grin, bumping their shoulder together as he does. He bets Louis worried about it. Zayn can tell he did.

“Where were you?” Louis demands, hot on his heels.

Zayn looks at him, tries to get anything from his face, but Louis isn’t giving it away. So Zayn shrugs as he climbs the three steps. “I went home.”

“You–”

“Where’s Harry?” He looks through the open door, but doesn’t hear anything.

Louis huffs, “Out there,” with a nod towards the field. The pick-up is there, just a little further along than the last time Zayn saw it parked there. “I tried to warm him, tell him to come clean.”

"About what?"

For how loud he is, it doesn't look like Louis is going to answer. But then he huffs and says, "He's building that fence for you, did you know?"

Zayn stares blankly at him.

"Those cows won't leave, fence or no fence. But this way, he got to keep an eye on you," Louis shrugs, smirks even. "Now I know why."

Zayn lifts a hand over his head as walks back down the steps and starts his way on the field.

“I tried to tell him to stay away. But he wouldn’t!” Louis’ yelling after Zayn. “Harry never does what he’s told!”

That’s funny, Zayn thinks. He never does what he’s told either, doesn’t listen, didn’t care much about anything before he heard about Glitter and Sparkle, the half white horse. He still hasn’t seen them, not really, not up close past the fence around their own private stable at the back of the chicken cup. Maybe he could finally meet them now.

He’s squinting against the sun as he picks up on the figure still a couple yards away, can almost hear Harry grunt every time he sticks his shovel into the dry dirt, slamming it with his foot, because he knows what he’s doing.

Zayn opens his mouth when he covers the last few feet, ready to say a casual _Hey, I’m back_ , as the sun dips lower and lower behind the trees, but Harry must hear the crunch of the grass, because he turns around and practically throws the shovel into the ground.

“Where were you?” Harry beats him to it, hands on his hips. “You realize you broke your parole? I almost called Paul.”

“ _I_ called Paul.” His mom asked, frowning as she thought of it. ‘Do they let you leave? Are you in trouble?’ so Zayn asked to use the phone. Paul wasn’t happy, but he said he can let it slide if he was back on the ranch before sunset. _No cars_. Zayn promised and for the first time probably, he kept it. “It’s fine.”

Harry sputters a little, shakes his head at him like he’s having a hard time believing him. Zayn relates to that. “Well, where were you?” Harry leans back when he asks, raises his head by an inch.

“Home.” Zayn wonders if Harry will believe him. “I went home to see my folks.”

“Oh.” Harry visibly deflates, bringing his feet closer together again. He starts taking his gloves off when he opens his mouth and closes it. Open and close. It takes him a while, Zayn just standing there waiting for Harry to start, to say what he wants to say. He can give him that. “I only get her on certain days.” It comes out as a blur.

“What?”

“Two days every other week and sometimes the weekend,” Harry lists off, repeating it not for the first time. “Valerie lets me have breakfast with them, do the baths. And if she needs a babysitter for a date night. I’m basically my daughters nanny.” Harry ends with an exasperated huff. His shoulders slump, he bites his lip.

“But…” Zayn takes a step forwards, wants to reach out for Harry’s arm just to touch him somewhere. “Why?”

Harry laughs bitterly. “How do you think I know Paul?”

“You–”

“I used to be young and stupid too Zayn. But I had to grow up overnight when I got Maya and… The idea of getting her into something like that, of her taking after me… it’s just not– I can’t do that to her.”

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to frown and sputter. “So you thought I’d what? Teach her how to hotwire a car or something?”

“No, that’s not–” Harry’s shaking his head.

“What did you think would happen?” He laughs at Harry. Zayn didn’t know he could be this stupid. “We’d go around town joyriding?”

“She’s five years old Zayn.”

“Well what is it then?” Zayn raises his voice. He needs to sit down, needs to entwine his fingers so his hands stay still.

“I liked you too much! That’s it! I do this for Paul, give people their lives back, let them work here until they have to. But you’re not–” Harry says as he moves left and right, his legs spinning him around in circles. Paul told me to stay away from you and he always says that, I just didn’t think he meant it this time.”

“But why–”

“I never mention my daughter to newcomers. That was Valerie’s condition. Maya can come to ride her horses and hang out with Louis and Niall, but she doesn’t stay here, she isn’t here when you are.” Harry’s repeating words again, the ones he has stuck in his head, always on his mind. _Do this, don’t do that_. Zayn remembers how it felt when he got left with Safaa overnight by himself for the first time. He kept repeating the words to himself too.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think this,” Harry motions between them, “was a thing.”

“It isn’t.” Zayn shrugs and keeps his eyes on Harry as he takes a step forward and then another.

Harry inhales a tired breath and says, “It might not be to you, but it is to me. And I didn’t know how to bring it up later.” It reminds Zayn of how he looked that first night, drinking by himself in the kitchen, sitting on top of the island, exhaustion seeping into his eyes.

“Hey,” Zayn says loudly, bringing Harry’s eyes up to him. “By the way, I have a daughter. Her name is Maya and she wants to be a cowboy when she grows up.” Harry blinks at him, bites his lip as Zayn takes another step forward, less angry this time, smiling just barely, just so that Harry knows he is. “Because she wants to be like her dad.”

–

Zayn’s standing at the stove, looking down at the eggs and tomatoes sizzling in the pan. He’s already cut off the crust off the bread even if Harry said Maya doesn’t mind it. Zayn wants to spoil her from the get go, no time to start like right away. The table’s set, there’s juice on the table, freshly squeezed, because Zayn needed something to do after Harry woke him up at half past four in the morning just to say a sleepy hello.

Maya’s gotten her room back a few months ago, more pink now than when Zayn still slept there. It wasn’t easy adjusting from sleeping right underneath a window to the opposite side of a balcony Harry liked keeping closed during the night – to keep the crickets out Zayn, why do you think?

But Zayn’s managing, looking forward to the space he has now, stretching over the mattress once Harry gets up to go wake up Maya on the other side of town with fresh eggs in a basket along Niall’s homemade bread. Louis doesn’t come to wake him up at five anymore, an indefinite ban from ever entering Harry’s room after he _accidentally_ walked in on Zayn kneeling in front of Harry’s face on the bed.

Harry comes to stand behind him, wraps his hands around his hips. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. She’s five, Zayn. She likes people who are nice to her, that’s it.”

Zayn snorts. “You don’t know five year olds.”

“I know mine.” Harry kisses his neck, behind his ear, the top of the tattoo on the nob of his spine. Sporadic and where he can reach, like he always does.

“You’re gonna make me burn the eggs,” Zayn tilts his head back, leans it on Harry’s shoulder as his hands slip up under his shirt, tracing over Zayn’s skin. His thumb barely grazes his nipple when there’s a sound of a car pulling up in front of the house that makes them both jump.

“Relax, okay?” Harry says again, as if it’s done anything but put him on edge.

“Yeah, I’ll try.”

“Daddy!” Maya hollers from the porch, her little boots two sizes too big stomping on the old wood. “Daddy!”

With a hand on his shoulder, Harry smiles at Zayn and leans in for a quick kiss.

“Where’s my cowboy?” he hollers back, loud and boisterous. Maya comes screeching into the house with a grin and her arms opened, running into Harry’s chest fast enough to make him cough as he picks her up, but he doesn’t complain. There with her in his arms, Harry stands wide and strong. “Hey cutie-patootie, how are you?” He runs his fingers though her hair, loose this time, falling around her face in long brown curls.

Maya tucks her face into his neck and whispers something lowly so that Zayn can’t hear. Standing there next to them with his hands twitching at his sides, wearing a blue shirt because that’s her favorite color and he hopes she notices, Zayn thinks he isn’t meant to hear.

He’s met her that one time, in front of the house, pale and confused, almost falling over as he introduced herself so fiercely. It was Harry that brought it up, because Zayn didn’t want to rush him even though he did a little. He said it was time, that Maya should come round for breakfast one day, slowly, just for a couple hours.

Harry asks her something back in a whisper just as quiet and Maya nods back gently, biting her lips before she looks up at Zayn.

“Go on,” Harry encourages here, stepping closer to Zayn so she can look at him better.

“Hi.”

Zayn knows his eyes sparkle with the word, but he doesn’t care.

“Hi,” he says back, holding back on the full force of his smile. “We’ve meet before, haven’t we?”

Maya nods at him. She bites her knuckle and holds onto Harry tighter.

He catches Harry’s look, the careful eye he keeps on both their faces as he tries to focus on Maya. So Zayn takes a tentative step forwards and says, “See I thought I’ve seen those boots before,” and points to her feet.

Maya squeals in Harry’s arms, flails her hands around. “Daddy got them for me! So I can be a cowboy too!” Her words a jumbled mess, not coming out fast enough.

Harry sets her down and she’s walking right up to Zayn, angling her legs so he sees how the sides all stitched up with hearts. “I picked daddy’s boots and he picked mine.”

“Oh the glittery ones?” Zayn looks up at Harry. “Those are really pretty.”

“I know,” she sighs, all joy in her eyes. “They’re my favorite.”

“You know what’s funny.” He might as well tap at his chin while he’s playing it up. She has bright brown eyes, lighter than hazel and little concaves in her cheeks, looking at him with a grin, both her front teeth missing.

“What?”

Zayn chuckles. He’ll probably never get tired of the excited way kids always ask that, with anticipation thrumming over their skin and catching on his.“My favorite horse is named Glitter.”

Maya’s eyes widen, even her lips part as she gasps a loud, “No way.”

“Alright you two, time for breakfast.”

“But daddy, Zayn _has_ to meet my horse,” she’s insisting as Harry leads her to the table with a hand on top of her head. “He’ll love her so much.”

“I know he will, but you have to eat first.” Zayn’s never heard that tone coming from Harry. He’s heard it before, usually Trisha when Zayn or Safaa wouldn’t budge from in front of the TV, _just five more minutes_. It’s a loving exasperation, a little tired and full of heart. “He’s the one that made it, you know?”

“Thank you, Zayn,” she drones with her eyes on the food, reaching for the fork right as Harry picks her up. He sits on the chair he always does and puts Maya on his knee, bumping her up and down a little until she giggles for him to stop.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a moment, just a quick second as he sits down opposite them that Zayn has to take a breath. He watches them as Maya feeds herself and Harry, one bite for each. Harry’s leaning on his elbow, head low enough so she can reach him with her fork as he listens to her talk about the horses and the chickens, asking when the little cows are going to show up.

Looking down at his plate, Zayn reminds himself to call his mom and ask if he can talk to Safaa again, maybe come for a visit one of these days. Maybe tell her he’ll bring Harry too, so they can properly meet. He knows Valerie will take some time to get used to him being around now, especially since she kept looking at her car keys at the lunch they had last month. But maybe once she does, she’ll let them take Maya with them as well.

Zayn leans back in his chair and knows it’ll all work out. It doesn’t matter how or when, he knows it will. He trusts it will.

“Okay, I’m done. Can we go see the horses now?”

_–_

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> Want to talk about it? Come hit me up on my [tumblr](https://www.itsallaboutzarry.tumblr.com).


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